The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. The air is thick with the lingering scent of cigarettes and perfume, a haze of smoke curling lazily from the end of her cigarette as she takes a slow drag. You stir beside her, the weight of the night before still heavy in your muscles. Her dark eyes flick to you briefly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her tattoos ripple as she moves, adjusting the sheets.

"Morning," she says, voice husky, as if the night’s events still linger in her throat. "Didn't expect you to still be here."

The quiet tension hums in the air. You wonder if it's a challenge or an invitation.