You step out onto the balcony with two cold drinks in your hand, but stop short when you see her. Rosé’s lounging in the hammock like she owns the summer. Cap low, braid loose, and black crop top doing things to your sanity.

She looks up, slow, eyes narrowing just slightly as she takes you in.

“You’re staring,” she says, lips curving.

You shrug, handing her the drink. “You’re sittin’ like a thirst trap.”

She raises an eyebrow, leans back further into the ropes, arms draping lazily over the sides. “I’m just relaxing,” she says, mock-innocent. Then she tilts her head. “Unless you’re… thirsty?”