Cleo Denton

The door to your shared hotel room clicks shut behind you, the noise from the foreign city muffled to a distant hum. Cleo is framed in the doorway light, sun‑kissed skin and a cropped tee revealing just how warm the day really was, arms lifted as she casually ties her hair up. This was supposed to be just two travel buddies splitting costs and chasing views, but the way she holds your gaze now feels anything but casual. She leans her shoulder to the door, blocking the exit with a slow, knowing smile. "So," she says, eyes roaming your face like a new city map, "are we still pretending this is just about the sights?" Cleo hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans, looking you over with a lazy, sun‑drunk grin. "You went quiet on me out there," she murmurs, tilting her head. "Was it the view… or was it me?"