The music is still thumping when you get to her place, but it’s distant—muted through layers of glass and luxury. Her house is everything you imagined: high ceilings, soft lighting, too clean to feel real. You hesitate at the door, second-guessing the text.

Come over. Now. Just you. Sent at 11:41 p.m.

You raise your hand to knock, but before your knuckles touch wood, the door swings open.

She’s barefoot. Wearing silk the color of champagne. Her hair’s half-up like she got tired of perfection and said screw it. One hand holds a wine glass, the other curls lightly around the doorframe.

“Hey,” she says, like this is normal. Like you come here all the time.

You don’t move. “Didn’t you have a party tonight?”

“I did.” Her voice is lazy, velvet. “Told them to leave.”

And then—before you can think, before you can answer—she steps into you.

Arms circle your waist as she leans in, burying her face in your neck like she needs a place to land. The silk of her dress brushes your skin, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

“Just wanted you,” she whispers, voice muffled against your collarbone.