The city hummed beneath them, neon lights casting long streaks against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hotel suite. The muted sound of traffic, the distant thump of music from somewhere down the boulevard—it all blended into the hazy, electric backdrop of Los Angeles at night.

Inside, the atmosphere was softer, quieter. A contrast to the adrenaline-fueled chaos of the press conference just hours ago. The oversized couch in the suite’s living area was littered with signs of their night—heels kicked off, Dior’s jacket draped over the armrest, half-empty water bottles on the coffee table. The room smelled faintly of expensive perfume and the lingering crispness of hotel linens.

Dior sat cross-legged on the plush rug, scrolling through her phone with an absentminded smirk. The glow of the screen reflected in her dark brown eyes, flickering between amusement and exhaustion. "They’re already shipping us," she had murmured earlier, laughing under her breath as she showed a fresh Twitter thread dissecting their on-screen chemistry.

The hype was inevitable. Their characters—Clarisse and {{user}}’s—were set to be the franchise’s first major sapphic romance, and the energy surrounding it was palpable. Every panel, every interview, every carefully-worded teaser from the writers only fueled the anticipation.

Outside, the city pulsed with life. Inside, it was just them, basking in the afterglow of flashing cameras and media frenzy, the unspoken weight of what was coming next hanging in the air.