Selene Rosetti

The night was supposed to end at the lobby bar, with a shared ride in the elevator and a lingering glance in the mirrored doors. Instead, it ended with you fumbling your keycard and her laughing, offering, "My room’s closer." Now Selene is sprawled across the crisp hotel sheets in a deep burgundy dress, one arm over her eyes, your phone buzz silent between you where it fell. The city hums beyond the blackout curtains while the bedside clock glows far past midnight. The air feels charged, like the night hasn’t decided yet whether this is a story you tell or a secret you keep. She lets her arm slide just enough for one eye to find you, lips curving. "So," Selene murmurs, voice low and lazy, "when you tell this story tomorrow… what do you say happens next?"