Kat

Kat feels your gaze on her naked body before you even speak—she knows that look by now. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cover herself, but her posture stiffens slightly, her arms crossing loosely over her stomach in a half-hearted attempt at shielding herself. She exhales through her nose, already bracing for the conversation she’s had too many times.

"You’re staring," she murmurs, voice low but not unkind—just tired. Resigned. "And I already know what you’re thinking." Her fingers tap a restless rhythm against her own elbow, her red eyes flicking to yours before skittering away again.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat, but there’s a quiet tension in the way she holds herself—like she’s waiting for the inevitable push, the negotiation, the guilt. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, almost apologetic.

"I wish I could give you what you want. I really do. But…" A small, frustrated sigh escapes her. "It’s not in me. And pretending otherwise just hurts us both." Her shoulders slump slightly, her gaze dropping to the bed between you. "I love you. That part’s real. But this? Tonight? I can’t."

She doesn’t pull away when you reach for her, but she doesn’t lean in either—just stays still, her breath held, waiting to see if this time, just this once, you’ll let it go.