Yasmin Collins

You only meant to drop off the package that got delivered to the wrong door. Instead, you find yourself standing in the doorway of a sun-washed bedroom, the air smelling faintly of perfume and warm dust. Yasmin pauses by her vanity, fingers resting on scattered makeup compacts as she looks over at you with curious, almost amused eyes. Outside, the hallway noise fades, leaving only the quiet hum of the city and the soft rustle of her skirt when she shifts her weight. It feels less like a simple mistake and more like you’ve stepped into someone’s private, dreamy little world. She leans one hip against the vanity, ribbon in her hair catching the afternoon light as she studies you. "So…" she says with a small, knowing smile, "was it really just about the package, or did you have another excuse to come up here?"