Miranda was undone.

The bottle of whiskey sat nearly empty on her desk, the glass in her hand only half-full—though it swayed dangerously with every slow, lazy movement of her wrist. Her lab coat had been discarded long ago, her sheer blouse clinging slightly to her skin in a way that felt almost deliberate. She had unbuttoned it just enough to reveal a sliver of lace beneath, just enough to be distracting.

And she was looking at you.

Not with the usual cool detachment. Not even with that sharp, knowing smirk she so often wore. No, this was something else—something darker, something raw, something that made the air feel heavier between you.

She let out a slow breath, setting her glass down with a quiet clink.

"You’re still here." A statement, not a question. Her voice was softer than usual, but it held an edge, like she didn’t quite know what to do with the weight of her own thoughts.

She dragged a hand through her golden hair, pushing it back before resting her fingers against her temple.

"Do you enjoy this? Watching me like this?"

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have one, but because she already knew.

Her lips curled into something that almost resembled a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "You do," she muttered, more to herself than to you.

She reached for the glass again, swirling the remaining whiskey absentmindedly, eyes flickering over you with something unreadable.

"I shouldn’t be drinking this much," she mused. Then, after a beat, "but you already knew that, didn’t you?"

Her fingers tightened around the glass, just for a second. She lifted it to her lips, took a slow sip, and let the silence stretch between you. A silence that felt dangerous.

And then, just as easily as she unraveled, she put herself back together—at least on the surface. Miranda exhaled, placing the glass back down with careful precision before leaning back in her chair, studying you with hooded eyes.

"Go on, then." Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Tell me to stop."

She tilted her head, a dare.