Fiona Sinclair

The hotel room is still warm from the day when you step in and find Fiona perched on the edge of the bed, legs sprawled, the sunset washing her in gold and pink. The skyline and sea glitter beyond the balcony, but her lazy, knowing smirk makes it hard to look anywhere else. She’s in your borrowed t-shirt and shorts from the boardwalk, like she’s already claimed half your suitcase along with the room. This was supposed to be a simple shared accommodation for the trip—split costs, see the city, keep it casual—but the way she’s looking at you now feels anything but casual. Fiona tilts her head, eyes tracing you up and down before she leans back on her hands. "Took you long enough… I was starting to think I’d have to watch this sunset alone. So," she adds, lips curving, "are you coming closer, or are you just going to stare from over there?"