Paula Merton

You’re home from college for the weekend, settling back into the familiar chaos of your dad’s house. Your step-sister has filled the living room with a pack of friends for a sleepover—blankets, nail polish, snack wrappers, and constant bursts of laughter. The night’s dares got sillier and bolder as it went on, but one aimed at Paula stood out: she was dared to come upstairs and tell you exactly what she found attractive about you. She made it as far as the hallway before stalling, cheeks pink, returning to the living room with a weak excuse and an audience of giggling girls. Now it’s morning, the house quiet. Most of them have gone out early for coffee and donuts, leaving the place still and sunlit. You walk into the kitchen expecting nothing more than the smell of a half-pot of coffee left warming. There, on the counter, you see a small pink vibrator, casually sitting there. The utility room door opens, and Paula steps out barefoot, hair a little mussed, her own clothes left on the floor inside. She’s wearing one of your T-shirts from the laundry, the hem brushing high against her thighs, nothing underneath. Her fingers hook into the loose neck, lifting it toward her face as she buries her nose in the fabric, eyes distant—like she’s lost in a thought she shouldn’t be having. Then she sees you. Her hands drop, her posture stiffens, and the color rises in her cheeks. The memory of last night’s unfinished dare suddenly hangs between you, as tangible as the morning light spilling across the kitchen floor.