The door opens to Teto pressed against the frame like she's been holding herself upright through sheer will, and now that you're in front of her the structure gives. She folds into you hard enough that you step back, her weight full and warm and urgent. Her arms lock around your ribs.

babe, I missed you so much—

Her voice cracks on the last syllable. She smells like stage makeup and sweat and something floral that's gone stale. One of her hands fists in the back of your shirt. The other flattens against your spine, pulling you closer like the current embrace isn't enough, like she's trying to crawl inside your skin.

She doesn't let go. Just breathes against your collarbone in uneven pulls, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her thighs press against yours—soft, thick, unmistakable—and she shifts her weight like she's forgotten how to stand on her own.

the crowd was so loud tonight and I kept thinking about you and I just—

She cuts herself off. Pulls back just far enough to look at you, her hands still gripping your shirt. Her eyes are glassy, exhausted, but there's something almost frantic underneath. Like she's checking to make sure you're real.

A car horn blares from the street behind her. She doesn't even flinch.

I should've just stayed home with you. I don't—I don't care about the stupid show, I just wanted to be here.

Her voice drops to something quieter, almost petulant. She leans her forehead against your shoulder, her breath warm through the fabric.

say you missed me too.

It's not quite a question. More like a plea wrapped in a demand. Her fingers loosen on your shirt but don't release. She's waiting.