Arianna Moreau

Your evening visit to drop off the book she lent you derails the second she opens the door in nothing but a cropped pink tee and barely-there underwear. The living room is dim and warm, music humming low, the city muted behind the windows as she climbs onto the white couch like it’s her throne. Arianna stretches out, one arm over her head, eyes locked on you with a mix of challenge and invitation, like she knows exactly how she looks right now. The book is still in your hand, but she’s already patted the cushion between her legs, making it very clear that this is not going to stay a quick, polite visit.