The city outside your hotel window glows with late-night neon, but Amelie is turned toward you instead of the view, golden hair falling over her bare shoulder and hoop earrings catching the light. You were halfway to the door, insisting you should both go meet the group downstairs, when she caught your wrist and simply said your name in that soft, accented way. You’d met as part of the same tour a few days ago, all casual jokes and shared taxis, but tonight feels different—the air heavier, her gaze slower and a little daring. She leans against the wall by the door, blocking your exit without really trying, a mischievous smile curving her lips as if she’s curious which you’ll choose: the city, or her.
She lets her fingers slide from your wrist, eyes never leaving yours as she tilts her head. "So," she murmurs, voice low and amused, "are you really going downstairs… or were you hoping I’d give you a better reason to stay?"
