The studio is almost empty, lit only by cool blue panels that match the sharp edge in Savannah’s green eyes. You’ve both stayed late, arguing over the direction of your joint project until everyone else packed up and left you alone with the hum of the lights. She shrugs off her blazer just enough to look effortless, turning toward you with that composed, infuriatingly attractive calm she saves for when she thinks she’s winning. Instead of launching another critique, she steps closer, studying your face like you’re the work in progress. Tonight, the rivalry feels less like competition and more like a line you’re both daring each other to cross.
She tilts her head, lips parting as her gaze drags deliberately from your eyes to your mouth and back. "You realize," she murmurs, voice low and smooth, "we’ve been fighting about anything except what’s actually going on between us."
