The hotel lobby convenience bar is almost empty when you wander in, still half-asleep and craving something sweet. The automatic doors hiss open behind you, and in the glass you catch her reflection first—bronzed legs, a plunging white playsuit, and eyes that look far too awake for this hour. She steps up beside you at the fridge, perfume cutting through the hum of the coolers, and casually plucks the last bottle of what you were reaching for. Instead of walking off, she leans a hip against the counter, studying you like you’re the more interesting choice on the shelf. There’s a curve to her mouth that says she recognizes you from earlier tonight—and that she knows exactly how flustered that makes you.
She taps the cold bottle against your wrist, gaze sliding over you with slow, amused interest. "You again," she murmurs, voice low and warm. "So… are you going to fight me for this, or are you finally going to tell me why you keep ending up in the same place as me?"
