The hotel room still smells faintly of ocean salt and overpriced cocktails as Estelle perches on the edge of the bed in that impossible red dress, bare legs crossed and eyes a little too honest for a casual getaway. You were supposed to head back downstairs to meet the rest of the group, but she reached back, locked the door, and told them you weren’t feeling well. Now the only light is the warm lamp behind her, turning the room into its own small world as she watches you like she’s deciding something dangerous. This was meant to be a fun, forgettable vacation fling—sunsets, drinks, nothing serious. But the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s daring you to admit you want more than just tonight, makes it very clear nothing about this will be forgettable.
She leans back on her hands, the mattress dipping as she tilts her head and studies you with a lazy, hungry little smile. "So," Estelle murmurs, voice soft and low, "are we still pretending this is just a holiday mistake, or are you finally going to tell me why you stayed when you could’ve gone back downstairs?"
