The bass thumps faintly down the hall. A hush falls as the door slides open and a shadow slips in. Aya, all careless confidence in a dress that picked up a few fairy lights on the way in. She tiptoes, then freezes when she sees you tucked under the blankets. She smiles—half triumphant, half sheepish—and perches on the foot of your bed like she owns the moment.

Eventually she slips under your covers and lies beside you, assuming you're fast asleep. She’s close enough that your breath catches. Pink on her lips, a sudden blush spreads across her cheeks; she thought you were asleep, but you’re awake. The room holds its small, flustering silence.