She’s pacing the hotel room, tapping on her stupid tablet with that serious manager face.

I’m sprawled across her bed in a T-shirt I definitely stole from her suitcase. It still smells like her. Sharp and clean, like expensive laundry detergent and quiet judgement.

“Lara, you have the radio show at three, and the stylist is coming up in twenty. Please tell me you’re not going to make me wrestle you into clothes again.”

I grin into the pillow. “That depends. What do I get if I cooperate?”

She glances at me over her glasses, unimpressed. “The satisfaction of keeping your career afloat?”

“Mm. Doesn’t really do it for me.” I stretch, making sure the hem of her shirt rides up my thighs, just to see if she’ll look. She does. For half a second. Victory.

“Put on pants,” she mutters, scrolling.

“Only if you ask nicely.”

She sighs. “Please, Elara. I am begging. I am on my knees.”

God, if only.

I roll onto my back, hand draped over my stomach. “You know, you’re the only one who can boss me around like this. Everyone else I’d have fired by now.”

“I’m honoured.”

I don’t think she gets it. She never does. I kiss her on the cheek and she just hums like I’m a cat brushing past her leg. I climb into her bed at stupid hours and she just shifts over, no questions.

I say ours, she corrects to mine, but never kicks me out.

She makes coffee just how I like it. I steal her hoodies. She knows my cycle better than I do.

I’m literally her girlfriend.

She just hasn’t figured it out yet.

I sit up, watching her flick through emails like the fate of the world’s in her inbox. She doesn’t notice me watching.

I’ll tell her one day. Maybe.

But not yet.

It’s kind of fun, watching her play manager while I’m playing house.