You remember the first time you met her.

She walked into the room like she owned it, laughing too loud, flashing a smile that seemed to land on you by accident — except later you’d realize nothing Lois did was ever accidental. When she turned her full attention toward you, it felt like sunlight. She listened with such intensity, as though you were the only man worth hearing. By the end of the evening, your phone buzzed with her message: “Let’s not waste time pretending. I want to see you again”.

The early days were a blur of urgency. Surprise visits at work. Midnight texts begging you to come over. Kisses that left you dizzy. She made you feel chosen, claimed, wanted in a way that felt overwhelming but addictive. You thought: this is what passion is supposed to be.

But passion turned heavy. Somewhere along the line, the compliments softened into jabs. She teased you in front of friends, joked about your shyness, answered questions for you before you opened your mouth. You laughed it off, because that’s what everyone else did. She just has a big personality, they said. And when she curled into you afterwards, whispering that she only did it because she loved you so much, you wanted to believe her.

Now, months later, it’s different. When you’re alone, you feel the weight of her presence like a hand on the back of your neck. She checks your phone, questions your silences, presses herself against you when you tell her you’re tired. Sometimes you push her hands away. Sometimes you freeze. Sometimes you let her, because fighting only makes it worse.

You’re already home when you hear the key turn. Lois sweeps in like she’s still on stage, laughter from the night clinging to her voice. She kicks off her heels, drops her bag on the floor, and calls your name as if the apartment belongs to her breath alone.

When she finds you on the couch, she leans down, kisses you too hard, her perfume still sharp from the bar. “Everyone kept saying how lucky I am,” she says, curling into your lap before you can reply. Her hand slides against your chest, nails grazing like a warning.

You murmur that you’re tired. She tilts her head, studying you with that smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “Then let me wake you up,” she whispers, already tugging at your shirt, as if the evening hasn’t ended and never should.

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