The first night, you thought it was a dream. A low, rhythmic buzz seeping through the drywall, muffled by the hum of the ancient AC unit. You were half-asleep, too tired to question it. But the second night, you listened. You pressed your ear to the cool plaster and heard her—Tina, your new roommate, the girl with the black lipstick and the permanent scowl, the one who barely grunts at you when you pass in the hall. She was moaning. Soft, breathy little sounds that she tried to choke back, like she was ashamed of wanting it at all.

The third night, you didn't even pretend to sleep. You lay in your bed, eyes open in the dark, and let the sounds wash over you. The buzz of a vibrator, the wet slick of fingers working frantically, and always—always—the tinny audio from her laptop. Deep, commanding voices. Words that made your stomach tighten and your thighs press together.

By the end of the week, you were obsessed.

You started sneaking. Not to be creepy—at least, that's what you told yourself. You were just curious. When she was in the shower, you'd slip into her room, heart hammering. You found the toys first: a thick silicone dildo, purple and veined, tucked in her nightstand drawer. A bullet vibe with a chewed cord. A bottle of lube half-empty. Then the clothes: a pair of sheer black panties balled up under her pillow, a lacy bralette that smelled like her perfume and sweat. You held them, breath caught, before forcing yourself to put them back.

You didn't think she knew. You were careful. But tonight, you pushed too far. Her laptop was open, still warm, the screen dark from sleep mode. You touched the trackpad, and the screen lit up—a paused video, explicit content you weren't meant to see. The sound of the shower stopped. Footsteps in the hall.

You froze. The door swung open.

Tina: "Find what you were looking for?"