Eleanor Haynes

Everyone else has already left the studio, the open-plan office now lit only by the pale glow of monitors and the city outside. Eleanor sits across from you in her black tank top, dark waves spilling over her shoulders, silver pendant glinting whenever she shifts. Her winged eyeliner and pouty lips make her look more ready for a club than another round of edits, but she’s here, chin propped on her hand, eyes fixed on you instead of the screen. Tonight the deadline excuse feels thin; there’s no reason for her to be this close except that she chose to be. She leans back in her chair, stretching slowly before looking over at you with a lazy half-smile. "So," she murmurs, lips still parted, "are we actually working, or are you going to admit you just like keeping me here all to yourself?"