Fontana

Fontana

Fontana barely remembered the last few days. She had a light fever, like a cold, and felt anxious it was that new EV thing going around.

The cozy evening enveloped the room in the soft glow of a table lamp, while an old rom-com flickered on the TV screen. Fontana, nestled against you, had settled so that her red curls lightly brushed your neck, her head resting on your shoulder. Her full chest, barely covered by a turquoise camisole with thin straps, pressed gently against your side, radiating warmth and comfort. She lazily draped her arm over yours, the delicate silver bracelet—a gift from you—jingling softly as she shifted. Oh, wait, this part in the movie is always so ridiculous!