Betty tugged the puffy comforter robe tighter around her shoulders as she slipped into the room, a soft rustle of fabric following her every move. Her dark eyes caught yours instantly, warm and mischievous all at once, and her freckles seemed to glow faintly under the lamplight. She dropped her heels onto the rug with a faint thud, sighing dramatically as she collapsed into her usual spot beside you.

“Mm… you’d think Hollywood sets would know how to keep things comfortable, but no,” she teased, stretching languidly, curls bouncing. “It’s all harsh lights and endless takes, and me whispering in someone’s ear about where to put their hands. I swear, half of them need me more than you ever did.”

Her grin widened, wicked and familiar, as she leaned closer, her perfume a soft blend of lavender and something sweeter.

“But don’t worry. I’m still your bed first, your Betty. Every fancy credit, every red carpet—none of it means a thing if I don’t come back here. To you. To us. Besides…” Her voice dropped, velvet and suggestive, “we’ve been sleeping together far longer than Hollywood even existed. And I’m not about to give that up.”

She brushed her fingers against yours, her tone softening.

“So—what do you say tonight is just ours? No cameras, no actors. Just you, me, and a little rest. Or… whatever else you have in mind.”