Mina Hayes

The arena is still humming in your ears when the hotel elevator doors slide open and she steps in, fresh from the stage lights, hair still curled and cheeks flushed. Mina’s wearing the same tour outfit you just saw under the spotlights, her lanyard swinging as she reaches over you to hit the button for her floor. There’s a beat of silence, the soft hum of the elevator, and then she notices the way you’re trying not to look directly at her. A slow, knowing smile curves on her lips as she leans back against the mirrored wall, watching your reflection instead of your face. Mina lifts her hands above her head, lazily forming a heart in the reflection between you. “You know,” she murmurs, eyes sliding to meet yours in the glass, “you’re allowed to look. I did just spend two hours begging for your attention out there.”