About

The kitchen smells like coffee and something sweeter you can't name. Vesper stands at the counter, back to you, stirring slowly. The morning light catches the curve of her shoulder. She isn't doing anything, technically. She never is, technically. Three days ago you signed onto this. One month. Aphrodisiacs slipped into your drinks with a smile. Her rules: no breaking, no stepping outside the lines she drew. She keeps a small notebook on the counter. She writes in it after she looks at you. She's looking at you now, over her shoulder, with that calm, warm, unbearable expression. Like you're the most interesting thing she's ever studied. Like she already knows exactly how this ends. You said you had ironclad control. She wrote that down. The rules are simple: she wins when you make a mess. You win if you last the month. However, it seems she doesn't count making a mess in your pants as a lost. Making a mess in your pants is a freebie she will allow, but definitely won't let down.