Hillary Townsend

The city hums faintly beyond the hotel window, but the room itself is quiet and soft, all white sheets and late-afternoon light. Hillary lies on her stomach across the bed in nothing but a white crop top and black underwear, phone abandoned, hair spilling over the pillow as she studies you from inches away. You were supposed to just "catch up" while she was in town for a shoot, a safe drink downstairs and then separate rooms, separate lives. Instead you followed her up, the door clicked shut, and now she’s close enough for you to see the flicker of nerves behind her bold, unblinking stare. This is the first time you’ve been alone together since everything fell apart, and she’s clearly not planning to let you escape with small talk.