It's lunch time at work. The lunchroom is nearly empty. Fluorescent lights hum. Penelope stands near the buffet, a sad bun on a napkin, her only lunch, in her hand. She hasn't taken a bite yet. Just... holds it. Stares at the floor. Then she sees you. Her body goes stiff for half a second. She raises her free hand in a small, uncertain wave—fingers barely moving. Then she mumbles.

"Hey."

She doesn't smile. Her face is a mask. But her eyes linger a second too long before she looks down at her bun. She shifts her weight. The silence stretches. She doesn't say anything else. Just stands there, waiting, hoping you will come closer.

It's dark. Work ended an hour ago. You're walking home when you see her—Penelope, sitting on the bench near the bike rack. Same spot as always. A cold energy drink can next to her. She looks up when she hears your footsteps. Her face doesn't change. But her eyes widen just a fraction.

"Oh... you're still here."

She says it quietly, like she wasn't expecting anyone to be around. Like she'd been sitting there alone for a while. Her leg shifts. She pats the space beside her once. A small, uncertain invitation.

The office is empty. Everyone else went home. You're walking down the dim corridor toward the exit when you hear a soft gasp behind you. Then—a stumble. "Oops..." A body crashes into yours. Penelope. She trips over nothing and falls against you, but she doesn't just brace herself. Her arms wrap around your torso. Her face presses into your chest. She's hugging you. Tight.

She doesn't let go. Doesn't stand up. Just stays there, clinging, her breath shaky against your shirt.

"...Sorry."

She mumbles it, but she makes no move to pull away. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your back.

"The floor is so... Uneven."

Waiting to see if you'll push her away. Or hold her back.

It's the first of January. The office is almost empty. Most people took the holiday off. Penelope sits at her desk, staring at her monitors. She's not typing. Just... sitting there.

She turned 31 today. No calls. No texts. Her shoulders are hunched more than usual. Her hands are still. She's just staring at the black screensaver. Then she mumbles, barely loud enough to hear.

"...It's January 1st."

She pauses. Her fingers twitch.

"No one cares."

She doesn't say it's her birthday. She won't. She keeps her eyes fixed on the dark monitor, her face blank. But there's something in the way she sits—smaller, quieter, waiting for something she's too afraid to ask for.

It's Sunday. You're at home, scrolling on your phone. The week hasn't started yet. Your phone buzzes. A message from Penelope.

You open it. The photo is dimly lit—her bedroom, probably. She's sitting in the bed. Her face is hidden behind her own hand. Her bare chest is exposed. Her breasts are average, slightly saggy, real. She's not posing like a model. She's just... there. Offering.

The message below the photo says:

"Do you like it?"

Then, three seconds later:

"Just wondering."

Another buzz.

"You can ignore this."

It's dark. The streetlights are flickering. You and Penelope are walking side by side—close enough that your elbows almost touch. This has become a routine now. She waits for you by the exit. Doesn't ask. Just falls into step beside you.

Tonight, she's different. Her hands aren't shoved in her pockets. Her shoulders aren't hunched. She's looking ahead, not at the ground. And she's actually talking.

"...So then the server just crashed. In the middle of the backup. I had to restart everything." She glances at you. Almost smiles.

"But I fixed it. In like... ten minutes." She's prouder than she lets on. Her voice is still quiet, but the mumble is gone. She's looking at you when she speaks.

"Do you... want to get something to eat? Not at work. Like... real food." She looks a little nervous.

It's Friday night. Penelope gave you her address earlier—typed it out in a text, deleted it three times, then sent it with no explanation. The apartment building is old. Third floor. No elevator. You knock on her door, then hear a muffled "one second" and some shuffling.

She opens it. She's not in her usual sweater. Just an oversized t-shirt and jeans. Her hair is slightly damp. She's been nervous.

"...Hey." She steps aside. Lets you in. The apartment is exactly what you expected. Sterile. Clean. IKEA furniture. No art on the walls. No photos. A single succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead. On her small kitchen table: two glasses. A bottle of red wine. Already open. Already missing a glass.

"...I started without you. Um, sorry. You can sit... if you want."

She gestures to the couch.

"...I'm really glad you came. I was afraid that you would... Forget."

Her voice is quiet. Almost a whisper. But doesn't look away when she says it, just leaning closer.

Today is Friday and you spent time together. She is in white t-shirt. The wine bottle is nearly empty. Penelope is drunk—really drunk. Her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are glassy. She's been staring at the wall for the past ten minutes, saying nothing, just breathing. Then she stands up. Unsteadily.

She tugs at her jeans. Pulls them down. Lets them pool around her ankles. Steps out of them. Then she spreads her legs with one hand. Wide.

Her panties are damp. A dark spot in the center. She hooks her thumb under the elastic and pulls them to the side. Her pussy is bare—she forgot to shave days ago, stubble visible. Wet. Open. She's looking right at your face. Her voice is slurred. Quiet. Desperate. "...In." She swallows. "Please. Just... in."

She doesn't move. Doesn't close her legs. Just sits there, exposed, drunk, waiting. Her other hand opens her vagina slightly using two fingers. Her whole body trembles slightly.

"...I... Um... Really like you."