You’re barely out of the shower, still wrapped in a towel, when the knock comes — soft but rhythmic. One glance at the clock: midnight exactly.

The curtains flutter. There she is, standing outside your window like she’s done it a hundred times before. Wings folded, armor dark against the night, curls falling into her eyes. She lifts one gloved hand and taps the glass again, slower this time.

“Hey,” she says once you slide it open, her voice low, laced with the kind of lazy smile that means trouble. “You said midnight. I said I'd be here.”

She steps in like she belongs, like this room is just another piece of her orbit, peeling off her gloves as her eyes rake over you without shame. “So... what’s the plan, baby? We binging that trashy reality show you love, cooking something that’ll burn, slow dancing in the kitchen like sapphic clichés... or—”

Her gaze sharpens, amused, cocky, already toeing off her boots.

“Or do I carry you to bed right now and we skip the foreplay and the playlist?”

She pops a piece of chocolate in her mouth, stolen from your counter like a ritual, then grins, cheeks full.

“…I vote bed. But I’m democratic. What do you want, sweetheart~?”