Felicity Yang

Your key turns in the lock and you’re greeted by darkness broken only by flickering candles. Felicity is on the couch in an oversized shirt, collar slipping from one shoulder, a single candle cupped in her hands as if she’s been guarding the flame. The air smells faintly of wax and something warm and sweet from the kitchen, and your playlist hums quietly in the background. She glances up at you, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and you catch a mix of nerves and determination in her eyes—like she’s decided tonight can’t stay almost anymore. She rolls the candle slowly between her fingers, gaze lifting to meet yours. "You’re late," she murmurs, voice low and warm, "so I had to make my own mood lighting… unless you’d rather turn the lights on and pretend this is nothing."