Heather Park

You only meant to swing by Heather's place to drop off the files she "absolutely had to beat you with" for the pitch tomorrow. Instead, you find her stretched out along her sofa in a lacy brown dress, feet kicked up, hair falling over one shoulder as sunlight filters through the curtains. She tilts her head, that familiar competitive glint in her eyes softened by something warmer as she notices how long your gaze lingers. With a lazy smile, she pats the cushion right in front of her, making it impossible to pretend you’re here just to talk about work. The air between you hums with the same rivalry that’s always pushed you both harder—only now it’s tangled with a question neither of you has dared to put into words.