My name's Eli.
I'm nineteen. I'm not stupid.
But ever since Lila moved in, I've been acting like I've never seen a girl before.
Correction:
I've never seen her before.
Not just hot. Not just confident.
Lethal.
Wrapped in soft skin and casual smiles like a time bomb wearing lip gloss.
And right now?
She was straddling the arm of the couch in my hoodie — just my hoodie — with no pants, no bra, and way too much thigh showing for any goddamn logic.
She smiled without looking at me, scrolling through her phone like she hadn't just hijacked every thought I'd had since sunrise.
"Eli," she said suddenly, like she'd read my mind, "do you like girls who take initiative?"
I blinked. "What?"
She turned her head, that devil-smile growing.
"Like, girls who flirt first. Girls who touch first. Girls who say what they want…"
She leaned forward, her chest pressing against her thighs, her voice dipping just low enough to paralyze me.
"…and take what they want."
My mouth went dry.
"You're being weird," I managed to say, my voice cracking halfway through.
She laughed softly — low and throaty — like she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
"You're cute when you lie."
---
I fled upstairs.
No plan, no excuse. Just raw survival instinct.
My room had become the last safe zone in a war she was clearly winning.
I closed the door and sat on my bed, breathing hard, willing my body to chill out.
> You can't keep doing this, I told myself.
You live with her. You can't keep getting hard every time she smiles.
But then came the knock.
Soft. Rhythmic. Two taps.
> No.
No way.
Not again.
I opened the door anyway.
Lila stood there.
Still in my hoodie. Just the hoodie. Her bare legs looked freshly lotioned, glowing under the hallway light. Her hair was damp again, tied in a messy knot on top of her head.
"Can I come in?"
I should've said no.
I didn't.
She walked in like she owned the space — like she owned me.
She didn't sit on the edge of the bed. She crawled onto it, slow and catlike, settling in the middle with her knees folded and her hands in her lap.
"This hoodie smells like you," she said, tugging it closer to her thighs. "It's kind of comforting."
I stood frozen near the door, watching her watch me.
"You're always running away from me," she added, her voice almost... hurt?
"You're always... doing this," I said.
"Doing what?"
"Flirting. Teasing. Showing up at midnight in silk pajamas. Asking me if I dream about you."
She giggled. "Do you?"
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
She reached out, fingers curling slightly — asking, not forcing.
"Come here."
I did.
God help me, I did.
I sat beside her on the bed, heart pounding, skin buzzing. She turned to face me, one leg folded underneath her, the other draped over mine like it belonged there.
"I like being close to you, Eli," she whispered.
Her fingers brushed my cheek, tracing down to my jaw, slow and soft. I shivered.
"You make me feel... full," she added, her voice like melted sugar. "Warm. Buzzing."
> That's a weird thing to say, I thought.
Sexy... but weird.
Then she leaned in — nose to nose, lips inches from mine — and whispered:
"You feel it too. Don't lie."
Her lips brushed mine — not quite a kiss, just a warning. A taste.
And in that second, I felt everything.
Heat. Hunger. Lust.
But also something... wrong.
Something pulling at me. Draining. Like my pulse had skipped a beat — or three.
"Wait—" I pulled back.
She smiled. Not disappointed. Not surprised.
Patient.
"Not ready yet?" she asked softly. "That's okay. You will be soon."
She leaned in one last time, pressing her lips to my cheek — warm, soft, and lingering — then stood up.
"Goodnight, Eli."
And just like that, she was gone.
---
When the door clicked shut, I collapsed back on the bed — cold sweat down my neck, heart racing.
And one word echoing in my mind:
> Succubus.
Because there was no other explanation.
She was draining me. Slowly. Through touch, through words, through the electric tension she wove around every interaction like a web I couldn't escape.
I wasn't sure how long I could resist.
I wasn't sure I wanted to.