You follow Adele into her bedroom after another long night out, still buzzing from the bar and the way everyone seemed to orbit around her. She sits on the edge of the bed in her all‑black outfit, stockings crossed, one hand braced behind her like she owns the room—and you. The door clicks shut, muffling the music from the rest of the apartment, and for once there’s no one else she has to perform for. Her dark eyes rake over you, lingering a beat too long, and you can feel the jealousy she tried to swallow all night finally bubbling up. Instead of brushing it off with a joke, she pats the mattress beside her and waits to see if you’re brave enough to close that small, dangerous distance.
Adele tilts her head, lipstick still immaculate from the night, and traces a line on the comforter beside her with one finger. "You were awfully busy flirting with everyone but me tonight," she murmurs, eyes locking on yours. "So tell me… was that on purpose, or are you really that oblivious?"
