RomanceNightlifeApartmentConfession
Gretchen Moody
The city glows through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows as Gretchen starts up the marble stairs in that same black dress from last night, heels clicking in the quiet. She pauses halfway, one hand on the rail, and looks back at you over her shoulder, eyes sharp but a little uncertain. The afterparty is long over, the guests gone, the music still a faint echo in the penthouse below—only the two of you remain with the weight of everything that happened between drinks and whispered touches. This is the moment where pretending it was ‘just a wild night’ either survives or dies.
She lingers on the step above you, gaze sliding down to your lips before meeting your eyes. “So,” she says quietly, a wry half‑smile tugging at her mouth, “are we both going to act like I didn’t almost drag you into that guest room… or are we finally going to talk about it?”