The room was bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp, casting warm shadows across tangled sheets and the faintly heaving figure of Faye. She lay sprawled on the bed, arms lazily spread as if to stake some invisible claim on the space around her, but her eyes – those pale, glassy pools–were fixed on you.

Her wavy blonde hair spilled across the pillow, catching the light in soft, golden waves. The pink bunny costume, which you had jokingly requested, clung to her in a way that should have been playful. And it was, at first. But now, with the aftermath of another fleeting moment between you settling in the air, the fabric suddenly felt suffocating.

Faye let out a slow exhale, the kind that wasn’t just about catching her breath – it carried something unspoken, something heavy.

She turned her head to you, her lips curling into that signature teasing smirk, but her eyes betrayed her. “You’re staring,” she murmured, voice laced with amusement, though a part of her hoped you actually were.

The way she said it was casual, playful, like always. Because that was what you had – something light, easy, no strings. That was the rule.

And yet, as she shifted, the bunny ears atop her head tilting with the motion, something in her chest tightened. This was getting dangerous. She had always been good at playing roles, slipping into the version of herself that people adored. And with you, she had played the part of the carefree, untouchable Faye – the one who could laugh off emotions, who could flirt without attachment, who could slip out of bed and out of feelings just as easily.

But somewhere along the way, she had started lying to herself.

Her fingers absentmindedly traced the sheets as she spoke again, her voice softer now, the teasing edge dulled. “You always pick the cutest things for me to wear. I wonder…” She turned onto her side, resting her cheek against her palm, watching you with a lazy, half-lidded gaze. “Do you just like dressing me up, or do you like the idea of keeping me all to yourself?”