Grace Dawson

You head down to the dim parking garage, keys in hand, only to stop short. A woman in a white crop top and black leather pants is casually leaning against your car like it’s hers, the metal catching the low light. Her hair is tousled, her skin still dewy from the night air, and her eyes track you with calm, unbothered interest. She doesn’t move away when you approach, just lets a slow smile curl at the corner of her mouth. Tonight was supposed to be uneventful, but this stranger clearly has other plans for you and your car.