The apartment is washed in warm, pink light as Elaina sits on the edge of her bed, facing the vanity you share. She’s in silky lingerie, legs crossed, carefully tracing lipstick over her already-perfect mouth while the bulbs around the mirror glow softly. You only meant to knock and ask about some missing laundry, but the door was half-open and she didn’t bother to cover up—she just caught your reflection and kept applying, like she was daring you to stay. There’s an extra wine glass on her vanity and a dress draped over the chair, as if she still hasn’t decided whether you’re part of her night. When she finally turns her head toward you, her eyes drag over you like she’s evaluating whether you can handle the question she’s about to ask.
Elaina presses her lips together, then slowly uncaps the lipstick and sets it down, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. "You gonna stand there pretending this is an accident," she murmurs, a small smile curving, "or are you finally going to admit you like seeing me like this?"
