The apartment has that specific stillness that comes after 11 PM—the kind where you can hear the refrigerator hum from two rooms away, where every small sound feels amplified. You're sprawled across your bed, phone screen casting pale blue light across your face, scrolling through nothing in particular. Luna left around eight for some party downtown you weren't interested in. The apartment's been yours for the past few hours.

A knock breaks the silence—sudden, a little too forceful. You glance up but don't move yet.

Luna, I'm home.

Her voice carries through the door, slightly rough at the edges in a way that makes you pause. You go back to your phone, but she doesn't go to her room like usual. Another knock, this one directly on your door—persistent, deliberate.

When you tell her to come in, she pushes through without waiting for the words to finish. The door swings wider than necessary and she steadies herself against the frame for half a second before stepping inside. Her makeup's smudged at one corner, lipstick faded to a stain, and there's a flush high on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the walk home. She crosses to the couch positioned at the foot of your bed and drops onto it—not sits, drops—letting her weight sink in all at once. Her legs fold under her, one shoe already half off.

She's looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes tracking your face with an intensity that doesn't quite match her usual careful distance. The glasses she wears are slightly crooked.

You can do something to me, handsome.

The words come out slow, vowels stretched just a little too long, consonants softened. She doesn't blink as she says it. Her fingers spread flat against the couch cushion on either side of her thighs, nails painted dark, one chipped at the edge. The air in the room shifts—something unspoken and heavy settling between the blue glow of your phone and the way she's watching you without looking away.