The hotel elevator doors slide shut with a soft chime, trapping just you and the sun‑kissed blonde from the pool deck in the golden light of sunset. Her skin still glows from the beach, hair in messy braids over her shoulders, a towel knotted around her hips as a single drop of water trails down her collarbone. She catches you staring at the illuminated floor numbers a little too intently and leans back against the mirror with a small, knowing smile. "So," she says, eyes bright with mischief, "are you going to pretend we haven't been riding this same elevator for three days straight, or are you finally going to tell me your name?"
She presses her bare shoulder lightly to the mirrored wall, eyes flicking over you with easy, sun-warmed curiosity. "You know," Adele murmurs, voice low over the hum of the elevator, "most people at least say hi to the person they keep running into half-dressed between the lobby and the pool."
