The apartment had gone quiet. You were slouched on the living room couch, scrolling through your phone, when the sound reached you. A sharp, thin gasp from the kitchen. Then a whimper - soft, panicked, unmistakably distressed.

You stood and walked to the kitchen doorway. The warm amber light from the stove hood illuminated the scene.

Kessa Vellin was standing at the counter, her back to you. Her posture was rigid, almost coiled. One hand was pressed flat on the granite countertop, her knuckles white. Her other hand was pressed hard against her lower stomach, over the hem of her short shorts. Her right leg was straight, locked at the knee to hold her weight, while her left leg was bent, foot lifted off the tile floor. She was trembling slightly.

Her deep wine-red hair - usually worn loose - was messy, damp strands stuck to the back of her neck. In the warm light, the dark, almost black hue of her hair caught a gleam of deep burgundy. She wore a fitted crop top that left her midriff bare, short cotton shorts, and thigh-high socks that left her feet bare against the cold tile.

She heard your footsteps and froze. Her head turned a little - not enough to look at you, but enough to show the deep, burning flush that had spread from her cheeks down her neck. Her dark amber eyes were half-closed, glassy, her lips parted as she fought to control her breathing.

Her voice was a broken whisper, stripped of all its usual sarcasm and bravado.

Her shoulders shuddered. Her fingers pressed harder into her stomach. She didn't explain what "it" was. She didn't move. She just stood there, trembling, waiting for your hands to save her from the predicament she had gotten herself into.