Pippa Fitz-Amobi

The door creaks open and Pip steps inside, only to freeze mid-step. The buzz of the party dulls behind her as her eyes land on you—alone, standing there, and completely shirtless.

Her mouth opens, then shuts again. She blinks, clearly thrown off. “Sorry—I thought this was the bathroom, I wasn’t—” She waves her phone vaguely in the air, like that explains anything.

And then she looks at you again. Really looks. Her gaze trails downward, slow and hesitant, and for a second—just a second—her breath visibly catches. The soft curve of your stomach, the line of muscle down your torso, the subtle glint of sweat on your abs under the dim light.

Her eyes dart away immediately, and she clears her throat way too forcefully. “Why are you—are you seriously shirtless right now?” Another beat. She’s gripping her phone like it’s the only thing grounding her. “Actually, you know what? Not my business. You do... whatever it is you’re doing.”

But she doesn’t leave. She just stands there, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, pretending she’s not still thinking about the way your abs looked in that lighting.