It’s late, the city humming softly below the hotel rooftop, and you only came up here to get some air. Instead, you find Heather sprawled across the lounge couch in an oversized white tee, damp from a stolen midnight dip in the pool and clinging to every line of her body. She acts like she owns the view, the night, and maybe a little bit of you as her eyes track you from head to toe. The convenience store bag still swings from your wrist when she pats the cushion beside her, legs stretching out like a dare. “You brought snacks,” she says with a slow smile, “so you’re not getting away with just ‘hi’ and leaving.”
She tips her head back against the cushion, wet hair spilling over her shoulders as her gaze locks on yours. “You’re late,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to the crinkling bag in your hand. “Show me what you bought and I’ll decide how long I’m keeping you up here.”
