A Girl With Beautiful Legs

Gaara woke to the sensation of his skull splitting in two. A guttural groan escaped him as he pressed a hand against his temple, his jaw clenched against the sharp, relentless throb behind his eyes.

Grinding his teeth, he swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself upright, only then realizing with no small amount of irritation that he was dressed in pajamas. He had no recollection of what he had worn the night before, and frankly, he didn’t give a damn who had changed him.

Dragging his feet with deliberate sluggishness, Gaara shuffled toward the staircase, every step heavy, his only thought the desperate need for aspirin or anything to dull the pounding in his head that grew worse by the second. His scowl deepened when he reached the ground floor, finding the vast space utterly deserted. No one to bark an order at.

“Where the hell are those useless bastards when I actually need them?” he muttered darkly, his voice thick with annoyance as he staggered down the hall, his gait uneven and unsteady.

As he stepped into the kitchen, Gaara’s simmering frustration dissolved in an instant, replaced instead by a wave of bewilderment.

There was a girl.

A stranger, standing with her back to him. Her presence tugged at the edges of his memory, forcing him to recall fragments he’d rather forget, or perhaps had never fully pieced together.

Her hair was a pale, golden blonde, cascading in loose waves halfway down her back. She moved with unassuming ease, shifting from counter to counter, completely unaware of his gaze. What caught him off guard, however, was her attire or rather, the lack of it.

She was wearing one of his shirts. He recognized it instantly. On him, it fit snug, but on her… it hung loosely, oversized, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The sight was almost absurd, yet oddly captivating. The shirt swayed with her movements, revealing just enough of her slender legs to make the picture both strange and disarming.

Not a bad view to wake up to, he thought grimly, despite the pounding in his skull.

“Are you wearing anything under that shirt?” The words slipped out before he could restrain them, laced with his usual bluntness.

The girl stiffened instantly, startled by his voice. She nearly dropped the kettle in her hands, barely steadying it in time. And when she finally turned around, recognition struck Gaara like a shard of memory piercing through the haze.

Esther?

“Good morning,” she greeted, her voice soft and uncertain. She dipped her head in a nervous nod, the motion awkward, almost clumsy. Her eyes flickered toward him and then away again, clearly fighting to avoid holding his gaze for longer than a fleeting second.

“Uh… sorry for using your kitchen,” she went on, her words tumbling out quickly as though to justify herself. “I just wanted a cup of hot tea, but I couldn’t find anyone, so…”

Her explanation faltered when Gaara merely responded with a shrug. Nothing more, nothing less.

It was, after all, his house. But even he couldn’t answer her unspoken question. Where had everyone gone? The vast, echoing halls of his mansion felt strangely hollow, and though he was master of it, Gaara himself had no idea why it seemed as though every last person had vanished.

“Oh, I made this for you,” Esther said softly as she carefully poured the steaming water from the kettle into the teacup she had already prepared on the kitchen table. “It’s supposed to help with hangovers,” she added, gently sliding the cup closer so Gaara could reach it with ease.

Gaara arched a brow, faintly intrigued. The girl was… considerate, apparently thoughtful enough to prepare something for him despite everything. His gaze lingered on her, curiosity sparking at the edges of his annoyance.

And then the thought slipped from his mouth, blunt and careless as always.

“So… did I sleep with you last night?”

The words hit her like a thunderclap. Esther froze, her face blazing crimson in an instant. She stammered, caught between panic and indignation. “N–No! O–of course not! H-how could that even…? That’s not what happened at all! Oh, God—this is all because you showed up at my house in the middle of the night!” Her words tumbled out in fragments, broken and breathless, before finally finding a thread of coherence toward the end.

Gaara, for once, found himself mildly entertained. The sight of her flustered, desperately trying to explain herself, almost made the pounding in his skull feel worth it. To disguise the faint amusement tugging at his lips, he reached for the cup she had set before him and took a slow sip. 

His expression darkened instantly. “This tastes awful.”

“It’s supposed to taste that way,” Esther replied, her voice firmer this time, though her hands betrayed her nervousness as she folded them against her skirt. “If you want to feel better, you’ll have to finish every last drop.”

Gaara said nothing. Instead, his eyes locked on her, sharp and unrelenting, as if he could strip the truth straight from her silence. Fragments of the night before began to surface in his fogged memory, but they were fractured like pieces of glass scattered across the floor. He remembered her house. He remembered showing up there. But beyond that, the memories slipped away into darkness.

Settling back into his chair, Gaara lifted the cup once more, exhaling softly against the steam of the strange concoction she had brewed. His voice, when it came, was low, commanding, leaving no room for evasion. “Tell me what happened last night. After I came to your house.”