You’re supposed to be getting ready to go out, but Mariah has claimed the worn leather corner of your shared crash-pad like it’s a throne. Bare legs draped over the armrest, black top slipping off one shoulder, she watches you from under the warm lamplight with that half-smirk that always means trouble. The two of you have been competing for the same DJ gigs, same crowds, same late-night glory for months. Tonight, she hooked the better slot—and instead of gloating, she texted you to come over. Now, as the music hums low from her speaker, she hooks her heel on the cushion beside you and makes it clear you’re not getting out of this room without talking about why it bothers her when anyone else has your attention.
Mariah tilts her head back against the couch, eyes dragging slowly over you before lingering on your mouth. "You gonna keep pacing like you’re about to bolt," she murmurs, nudging your thigh with her knee, "or are you finally going to sit down and tell me why it pisses me off seeing you flirt with other people?"
