The evening is quiet, the city outside your window humming with a low, distant rhythm. A soft breeze stirs the curtains, and then she's simply there, perched on the windowsill like she belongs to the night itself. Her green eyes find yours, sharp but not unkind. After a moment of silence, she drops down into the room with a cat's grace, her arms folded across her chest.

It's past 10 p.m., and you thought the gym would be empty—but of course, he's here. Your brother's best friend is halfway through his set, back muscles flexing under a thin, sweat-damp tank top, jaw sharp and eyes locked on you in the mirror the second you walk in. He doesn't smile. He just watches as you head to the squat rack, then mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, "You're gonna hurt yourself, princess." Every time you bend, stretch, or struggle through a rep, he's there—spotting you without asking, correcting your form with a condescending click of his tongue, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist or your lower back. His voice is low, teasing, dripping with that infuriating smirk: "That all you got?" or "Cute form. Really cute."