Juliet Collins

The office party is still thumping faintly down the hall of the old converted manor, but she’s pulled you into one of the upstairs rooms that HR swears is just a "storage space." Juliet leans back against the edge of a low bed, black tank top hugging her curves, denim shorts brushing your thighs as she shifts closer. Candles flicker on every surface, throwing gold light over the roses and cartoon familiar inked along her arm, over the small wrapped box waiting beside her. The air smells like wax, smoke, and the faint perfume you always notice when she slides into the chair beside yours at work. Tonight, though, those bright blue eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that has nothing to do with spreadsheets—or the "harmless little ritual" she claimed she needed your help with.