Zora Calder

The hotel room still smells faintly like the bar downstairs—citrus, perfume, and the kind of bad decisions you only make with someone you trust too much. Zora has already kicked off the night’s plans, stretched across the white duvet in a lace bra and a tiny plaid skirt that she clearly changed into just for your eyes. She pats the spot beside her like it’s the most casual thing in the world, even as her gaze drags over you with something that’s never been strictly friendly. You can tell she’s a little buzzed, a little reckless, and very aware of how much space is left on that bed between you.