Eliana Moreno

The hotel lounge is already quiet when you step off the elevator, the carpet muting your footsteps. Eliana is curled into an armchair near the tall windows, legs crossed, champagne flute balanced elegantly in one hand, her fitted beige dress catching the warm lamplight. She looks entirely at home in this luxury—like she belongs to the suite on the top floor and the whispered conversations that never make it to the lobby. When she spots you lingering, she pats the chair opposite her and smirks, clearly amused that you came up after her instead of going straight to your own room. She traces the rim of her glass with one finger, eyes sliding slowly over you before settling on your face. "So," she murmurs, voice low and warm, "did you follow me up here on purpose, or are we calling this a very pretty coincidence?"