The sweet, buttery scent of cookies had crept upstairs like a silent, warm, utterly irresistible invitation.
Sophia lingered one last moment before the mirror. She peeled off the school uniform that suddenly felt heavy against her skin, and slipped into what she loved to wear in these quiet, private hours at home: soft rose-pink pants of a fabric so fine it clung to her like liquid silk poured over curves. The material embraced her hips and rear with a gentle, almost possessive pressure—innocent in appearance, yet unmistakably deliberate in the way it traced every line. Over it, a pale pink cotton top, slightly loose across the chest, slipping just enough to bare the delicate rounds of her shoulders.
She studied her reflection.
A small, secret smile curved her lips—for her eyes alone. With every tiny shift, the thin fabric whispered against her skin, as though the clothes themselves were caressing her.
She descended the stairs lightly, bare feet kissing the cool wood of each step, sending faint shivers racing up her legs like delicate electric secrets.
In the kitchen, the air was warm as an old embrace.
Her mother, Lina, stood near the oven, hair tied up in that effortlessly beautiful mess. Her father stood directly behind her—left hand resting on the soft curve of her waist, right hand sliding a hot cookie beneath her nose before stealing a small bite and bringing it to her lips. A soft laugh escaped Lina, tender and tinged with shy delight.
"Oh my God, Ibrahim… let me breathe!" she said, pushing him gently away—only for him to lean in again and press a quick butterfly kiss to the side of her neck.
That was the exact moment Sophia stepped into the kitchen.
Her father paused, turned to her with eyes full of affection and that ever-present playful glint.
"Wow… who is this pink princess?" he exclaimed in exaggerated wonder, then reached out and caught the hem of her rose-pink pants, giving them a little teasing tug as if inspecting fine merchandise. "These are gorgeous, sweetheart—but you're going to steal every single cookie before the rest of us even get a chance."
Sophia laughed, the sound ringing through the kitchen like a tiny silver bell.
She moved to the counter, picked up a warm cookie, letting the chocolate melt slightly onto her fingertips. She climbed onto the high stool, legs swinging lazily.
As her father passed behind her, he laid a fond hand on her shoulder—then, true to his lighthearted habit, delivered the tiniest, most playful smack to her backside while she sat. Not hard. Just enough to make her jump a little and burst into laughter.
"Dad!" she cried in mock outrage, eyes sparkling.
"I'm just protecting you from the cold!" he shot back with a wink, then returned to his place beside her mother, draping an arm around her shoulders.
They ate the cookies in comfortable quiet, broken only by soft chuckles and passing remarks.
Sophia savored slowly—the warmth, the sweetness, the simple honest love that wrapped around her like a favorite blanket. Yet beneath that gentle calm, something else stirred inside her… something patient, waiting for the moment her bedroom door would close.
Half an hour later, she stood.
"Good night, I'm feeling a bit tired."
Her father kissed her forehead, her mother her cheek.
Then she climbed the stairs again, steps a touch heavier now, as though she carried a secret too dense to move quickly.
In her room, she switched off the main light.
Only the small rose-colored bedside lamp remained, bathing the walls in a faint, dreamy blush.
She lay back on the bed, the pink pants still clinging to her like a second skin.
She reached for her phone.
At first she scrolled aimlessly… then drifted to the stories of some boys from school.
They were posting preparations for the weekend party: one trying on a new leather jacket, another posing in the bathroom mirror with forced confidence, a third raising a glass of juice with the caption: "Saturday's gonna be fire."
She studied their faces intently.
Imagined those same faces in darkness, their breaths, their hands, their gazes if they ever saw her dancing at that party…
And then she thought of Adam.
The boy who never posted anything. Who never appeared in photos. Who hid behind the curtain of his hair and the fortress of his silence.
She closed her eyes.
Her fingers began to drift—slowly—down her stomach, then lower, gliding over the soft rose fabric.
Light, circular motions, as though she were drawing secret symbols across her own skin.
Her breathing deepened, fractured into soft, uneven sighs.
She replayed the moment in class today: that single second when Adam's eyes had lifted to her, the panic and hunger tangled together in those warm brown depths.
Her fingers moved a little faster. The fabric grew damp beneath her touch.
Her lips parted. A small, stifled moan slipped out—meant only for the room.
Her body arched faintly, feet stretching along the sheets, toes curling tight.
It didn't last long.
The desire was sharp today, urgent, a swift wave that swept over her, then left her trembling, warm, deliciously spent.
She lifted her damp fingers, watched them glisten faintly in the lamp's soft glow.
A tired, satisfied smile bloomed across her face.
She set the phone aside without posting anything tonight.
Turned off the lamp.
She lay in the darkness, the rose-pink pants still molded to her, carrying the heat of her body and the faint, intimate scent of her arousal.
Tomorrow…
Tomorrow she would see Adam again.
And tomorrow…
perhaps she would find a way to make him hold her gaze for longer than a single heartbeat.
Sleep arrived slowly, like a heavy rose-colored cloud, cradling in its folds dreams that had not yet fully blossomed.