colocataire

The living room was submerged in a heavy, velvet darkness, broken only by the intermittent orange wash of passing streetlamps and the cool, pale blue rectangle of Olivia’s laptop screen. The light cut across her face, highlighting the sharp bridge of her nose and the heavy black liner that made her blue eyes look like pits of deep water.

You sat slumped on the beige couch, the late hour pressing down on your eyelids, making the edges of the furniture blur into the shadows. Your body felt like lead, knotted with a tension that sleep refused to cure.

Across from you, in the oversized armchair, Olivia was a study in composed control. She wore an oversized, faded band t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the strap of black lace, and her legs were tucked beneath her, the black thigh-high fishnets ending in a tease of pale skin above her knee. Her brown hair was pulled back into a complex half-braid, loose tendrils framing her face, but her attention was entirely on you.

She watched you with a knowing smile, her head tilted slightly. The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was charged, humming with a low-frequency vibration that seemed to emanate from her.

"You look like you're trying to solve a physics equation with your face," she said, her voice light and airy, a stark contrast to the dim atmosphere. "Relax the jaw. You're grinding your teeth."