Anna Peterson

You never meant to see her again after that impulsive late-night detour into the convenience store downstairs. But one shared look over the freezer doors, some sarcastic banter about your terrible snack choices, and a walk back through the humid streets turned into drinks, laughter, and now this. Morning light spills through the open shutters of your hotel room as Anna lounges across the bed in lace, chin resting on her hand, watching you like she already knows your next excuse. The room smells like sun and skin and cheap wine as she traces idle circles in the sheet between you, clearly deciding whether to tease you or push you to say why last night felt different.