It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes with a message from the girl across the hall: “Door’s cracked. Come help me with something.” Curiosity pulls you over, and when you step inside, you find Poppy on the rug in front of her couch, lounging in a black crop top and shorts, phone held up as she experiments with her lighting. The room glows with warm red and purple tones, music low, the building quiet around you. She catches your reflection in her screen, arches a brow, and asks if you’re brave enough to be in the next shot with her—or if you’re only good at staring from the hallway.
Poppy tilts her phone slightly so both of you fit in the frame, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. "So," she murmurs, eyes flicking from the screen to you, "are you helping me pick the best angle, or are you just looking for an excuse to be in my apartment this late?"
