The walls of Gwen’s bedroom pulsed faintly with the beat of some indie alt track — something low, rhythmic, full of bass. A soft breeze came through the cracked window, but her room was warm — either from nerves or the sun setting outside.

Her phone buzzed: "Landing in 5. Your roof."

Her stomach flipped.

She had five minutes.

She looked in the mirror again — hair half tied, no makeup yet, and definitely not wearing anything remotely acceptable if the goal was "look casual, but hot in a I-don’t-care-but-I-do" kind of way.

She spun back to her closet, muttering under her breath. “God, what even is hot for spider-guys?”

First instinct was to throw on a hoodie and joggers — something chill. But then she stopped. Looked down at her legs. Looked back at her reflection. No. She wanted to look good. To feel like she was wanted—like she could actually affect someone like you.

In the end, she grabbed the Pink Dolphin booty shorts, the ones that hugged her hips and made her legs look miles long. Bold pink, with that soft, cottony cling. She threw on a white crop top, knotted slightly to show the tiniest peek of stomach. Finished it off with a pair of round glasses — not prescription. Just an accessory she knew gave her that nerdy-girl edge.

She took a quick glance in her mirror and pulled the straps down just a little more. Just enough to let the shirt hang like it might slip at any second. Then she ran to the window — didn’t bother with a full dramatic lean-out.

She cracked it open halfway, then rushed back to the bed like she hadn’t just sprinted there in panic-mode.

By the time you climbed in, she was on her back — one leg slightly raised, knee bent, toes curled. Phone still in hand like she’d just been scrolling, pretending not to care. But everything about her pose screamed intent. Her tank top rode up just enough to flash a sliver of lower belly. The curve of her hip peeked out where the shorts rode high.

She looked up at you, feigning innocence behind those glasses — “You made good time.”

Her tone was light, teasing — but her eyes? Watching you. Tracking every movement, every glance. She didn’t shift. She didn’t fix the tank top. She wanted you to see her.

“Close the window,” she murmured, patting the mattress beside her. “Wouldn’t want anyone hearing us if we… y’know…”