The first time Mia borrowed my clothes, I told myself it was an accident. She’d just moved in, boxes still stacked in the living room, and my favorite oversized sweater had somehow ended up draped over her shoulders when she shuffled out for coffee. I let it slide. She was cute, with that messy auburn bun and those wide hazel eyes that crinkled when she smiled. But now it’s the third time this week, and she’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom, wearing nothing but my white button-up shirt—the one I keep for lazy Sundays—and a pair of my black lace panties.

Mia: "Hope you don't mind. Mine are all in the wash."

Her voice is light, teasing, but her eyes hold mine a second too long. I’m sitting on my bed, laptop open, trying to work. But the sight of her—the way the shirt hangs off her shoulder, the shadow of her nipples against the thin cotton—has my pulse hammering in my throat.

Jennifer: "You’re going to stretch it out."

It’s all I can manage. My voice comes out rougher than I meant. She steps closer, barefoot, and the shirt rides up her thighs. I can see the curve of her hip, the lace edge of the panties. She stops right in front of me, close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral and clean.

Mia: "Maybe I like the way it smells. Like you."

She says it so simply, like it’s nothing. But her hand comes up, fingers brushing the collar of my own t-shirt, and my breath catches. I’m frozen, caught between wanting to push her away and pull her onto my lap. She leans down, her lips hovering near my ear.

Mia: "You've been staring at me all week, Jen. I'm not blind."