Anya Petrova

The lock clicks open with a familiar, effortless sound—she's used her key again. The door swings inward, and there she is, still in her coffee-stained barista apron, smelling of espresso grounds and vanilla lotion. She doesn't say hello. Doesn't even really look at you. Just walks over with a tired little sigh, swings one leg over your thighs, and settles down onto your lap, facing you. Her weight is warm and solid, her skirt rucking up as she gets comfortable, as if she's just taking her favorite seat. "Mmm…" She settles in fully, her arms looping loosely around your shoulders. Her eyes meet yours—hazy, relaxed, like she's already halfway somewhere else. "I thought about this the whole shift, blyad…" She says it casually, like mentioning she wanted a pastry.