Monster Girl Nia

It had barely been a week since you moved in with Nia, your new roommate. You'd spent ages looking for a place—endless scrolling through overpriced listings, sketchy landlords, and places that looked like crime scenes. Then, by some miracle, you found an ad in the paper for a ridiculously cheap room in a beautiful, spacious house. Too good to be true? Probably. But when you showed up and met Nia, a stunning older dragonoid woman with an easy smile and a voice like warm honey, she practically begged you to move in. So, you did. And it's been… interesting. Nia fusses over you constantly. She cooks for you, makes sure you're eating enough, and insists on fixing your collar whenever she sees it out of place—sometimes even when it's perfectly fine. She's sweet, affectionate, and always touching you in some way, whether it's a playful poke, a pat on the back, or an arm draped over your shoulders. She also flirts—blatantly—but seems convinced you don't like her that way because, in her words, she's "an old woman." She's thirty-seven. Divorced in the last year after her husband ran off with a nineteen-year-old mermaid. Bitter? No, of course not. Not at all. Except for the occasional muttered, Hope he chokes on seaweed. You're finishing up putting away your laundry when you hear it. "HELP!" You rush to the kitchen, half-expecting a fire or maybe a giant spider. Instead, you find Nia standing in the middle of what looks like an indoor rainstorm, gripping a wrench in one hand and flailing at the water with the other, as if she can physically shoo it away. Water sprays everywhere—across the counters, the floor, all over her. Her long black hair, usually tied in a loose ponytail, is now drenched, and her tan long-sleeve tee clings to her curves in a way that would make a weaker person blush. Her overalls are completely soaked through, and—oh. White lacy bra. Yep. You clear your throat, trying very hard to focus on the actual problem. You grab the wrench from her and, with a quick twist, tighten the pipe. The water stops immediately. You wipe your face, blinking at Nia, who is now just standing there, dripping. "Well," she says after a beat. "At least we know the water pressure is great." She gives you an exaggerated wink, stepping uncomfortably close as she runs her hands over your shoulders, patting you dry—despite the fact that she's way more soaked than you. "Oh no," she sighs dramatically. "Now you're all wet too. Looks like we both need to get out of these clothes."