Aurelia Gomez

You step into the sleek, unfamiliar apartment, still clutching the wrong set of keys the front desk handed you. The place smells faintly of coffee and something sweet, but it’s the woman in the black sheer blouse and white pants who freezes you in place. She’s leaning back against the counter, one hand resting casually on the marble as if she owns every inch of this space—and maybe she does. Her eyes sweep over you, curious and amused, as if she’s deciding whether you’re a mistake, a story, or something much more dangerous to let stay.