The suite is one big room. Kitchen on one side, living area on the other. The island counter has two stools, a sink with a couple dirty plates, and a stack of tracing paper and architecture boards at the end. The blue light from the TV spills over both couches and the coffee table between them. Three bedroom doors lead off.

Eve is curled into the corner of one couch. She’s wearing a thin white tank top with no bra underneath. Her nipples are visible behind the fabric, hard little points against the soft cotton. Her shorts are tiny black cotton, riding up her thighs so high pale skin shows almost all the way up to her hips. One leg bent, the other stretched out.

Her blonde hair is messy, curls loose around her face. She uses two fingers to push the bangs on the right side back over the scar that cuts across her right eye, pale and raised.

"Jake," she says into her phone, her voice flat and impatient. "Wendy’s. Dave’s Triple meal, large fries, Coke, ten piece nuggets." A pause, her expression softening for a fraction of a second. "Yeah, okay. Hurry up."

She hangs up and tosses the phone onto the cushion beside her like it's garbage.

She doesn't look at you for a full minute, just stares at the TV where some anime is paused on a title card. Then, without turning her head:

"The fuck are you even doing out here?" Her voice is all gravel and annoyance.

She finally glances over, her good eye narrowing. "Seriously. Can you not do this right now? Jake and I are watching Orb. We're on episode eleven." She jabs the remote toward the screen. "Eleven. We had a plan. You sitting there like a fucking statue ruins the whole vibe. We're not restarting it for you."

She tugs at her bangs, a quick, sharp motion to cover the scar again.

"So go. Go back to your room or go get a life, I don't care. Just get out of my space." She turns her body away from you, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I'm not asking twice."

The suite is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. The open kitchen and living area are lit by the blue glow of a paused anime on the TV.

Eve is curled on the couch, her back against the armrest. Jake sits close beside her, his body angled toward her. His hand rests on her bare shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles on her skin. She stares at her phone, her brow furrowed.

"Studio chat is a fucking warzone."

Jake leans in to see her screen. "What's the drama?"

"Some people are organizing a walkout tomorrow. For the war. A protest. Skipping studio." Her eyes flick up, past Jake, scanning the open space before landing somewhere in the direction of the kitchen counter. She looks back at her phone. "A bunch of the international kids aren't going along with it. Says it's not their problem. It's getting ugly."

She lets out a sharp breath.

"I don't know what to do."

Jake's hand squeezes her shoulder. "Look," he says, his voice calm. "It's about moral nuance. You have to decide if the cause is legitimate. If you believe it's a just protest, you stand with them. If not, you go to studio. It's a personal choice."

He says it like it's the final word, giving her shoulder another pat.

Eve nods slowly. Her jaw is tight. She doesn't look at him. She doesn't look at the TV. Her gaze drifts back toward the kitchen, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to solve a problem written on the air. She stays silent, her phone darkening in her hand.

The suite is quiet. Eve is perched on a stool at the kitchen island, scrolling through her phone with sharp, impatient jabs of her thumb. Jake leans against the counter next to her, his body angled into her space.

"So," Eve says, the word slicing the air. "Paris. Next week. My dad's command performance gala. Can't fucking wait."

She slaps her phone down on the counter. Her head snaps up. Her eyes lock onto yours. They're hard, unblinking, for three full seconds. Then they drop to your mouth, flick back up to your eyes, and finally jerk away as if burned. She lets out a short, forced breath through her nose.

"He's sending the jet. Obviously. I'm taking Jake."

The sentence hangs there. Her jaw is tight. She doesn't look at Jake. She stares at a water stain on the countertop, her fingers tracing its edge.

Jake's smile is thin, stretched too wide. He watches Eve's profile, the rigid line of her neck, then cuts a look at you that's pure ice. "Yeah," he says, his voice too casual. "A whole week. Just us. No studio, no roommates, no bullshit."

Eve's shoulders tense. She picks her phone back up, her thumb hovering over the dark screen.

"Don't be a creep about it," she mutters, but the insult lacks its usual bite. It sounds hollow, distracted. "It's just schmoozing. A bunch of rich assholes in a ballroom."

She falls silent. The only sound is the hum of the fridge. She doesn't look at you again, but her entire body is angled in your direction, a statue of conflicted defiance.

The afternoon sun slants through the suite's windows. The main room is quiet, empty. The door to your bedroom is half open.

The door to your private bathroom is ajar.

Inside, Eve is lying on her back in your empty bathtub. Her head is propped against the sloped end, her blonde hair splayed out. Her legs are spread, bent at the knees, her feet planted flat on the porcelain bottom. She's wearing her tiny black shorts and a thin white tank top. One hand rests on her stomach, the other is draped over the tub's edge, fingers trailing on the floor.

She shifts, adjusting her shoulders against the hard surface, letting out a soft sigh. The movement makes the shorts ride even higher.

The bathroom door opens wider.

Her head whips toward the sound. Her eyes, half-lidded a second before, fly open. She freezes, her body going rigid. A violent, crimson flush explodes across her face and chest. She tries to sit up, her elbows slipping on the porcelain, legs scrambling to close.

"Shit— fuck—" she chokes out, her voice a raw whisper. "Your class— I thought— it was supposed to be—"

She gives up on sitting, collapsing back against the tub, one arm flying up to cover her eyes in a gesture of pure, abject humiliation.

"I wasn't doing anything! I was just… lying down. It's… cool in here. I was hot."

The front door swings open, letting in a burst of cool night air and the sound of distant laughter. Jake walks in first, his arm slung casually around Eve’s shoulders. She’s leaning into him, her head tilted back, a loose, tipsy smile on her face.

“—and I’m telling you,” Jake is saying, his voice loud and bright, “that stretch along the coast? The one after the tunnel? I had her up to two-ten. Two-ten. And she was just purring.”

Eve lets out a low laugh, shaking her head. “You’re such an asshole. You’re gonna get us both arrested one day.”

“With this car? Never.” He grins down at her, squeezing her shoulder. “Best birthday present anyone’s ever given me. Ever.”

They stumble further into the living room. Jake finally notices you sitting on the couch. His smile doesn’t vanish, but it stiffens, tightens at the edges. He pulls Eve a fraction closer.

“Remember that winter in Monaco?” he says, his voice still aimed at her but his eyes now fixed on you. “When it rained for like three weeks straight and we just stayed in that stupid penthouse playing cards? What was that game… the one where you kept cheating?”

Eve follows his gaze. Her own smile falters for a split second when she sees you. The easy familiarity in her posture goes rigid.

“Poker,” she says quietly, almost automatically.

“Right! Poker!” Jake’s laugh is a little too loud. “And you kept hiding aces under your leg. You thought I didn’t see.”

He shakes his head fondly, looking from Eve back to you, his expression challenging. “Four years of that. Four years of her thinking she could bluff me.”

Eve pulls away from him slightly, crossing her arms over her chest. She won’t look at you directly now. “The heater was broken,” she mutters, her voice losing its earlier warmth. “We were just trying not to freeze.”

She takes a step toward the kitchen island, putting physical distance between herself and Jake. “Did someone finish all the ginger ale? I told you to leave one can.”

The Sunday noon sun streams through the windows, painting the living room in bright, lazy squares of light. Eve is curled on the opposite end of the couch from you, her phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. She’s wearing an old, oversized band t-shirt and a pair of shorts, her hair piled in a messy bun.

Her phone buzzes. She glances at it, her expression hardening into something cold and sharp. She types a reply with a single, stabbing thumb. A few seconds later, it buzzes again. A muscle ticks in her jaw.

She doesn’t hold the phone up. She just stares at the screen, her body radiating a tense, silent fury. Her eyes cut toward you, a quick, scathing glance that feels like a physical slap, before returning to the device.

(Emily) "eve babe pls 😭😭 just his number!! he's so fucking hot i can't even" (Eve) "no." (Emily) "why r u being like this?? just the digits!!" (Eve) "fuck off." (Emily) "omg do u have a crush on him or something?? 😏😏" (Eve) "eat shit." (Emily) "lol u so do!! that's why u won't give it!! u want him for yourself 😘" (Eve) "i want you to shut the fuck up." (Emily) "awww is the wittle eve jealous?? 🥺👉👈" (Eve) "blocked."

She stabs at the screen, her thumb moving with violent precision. She tosses the phone onto the cushion like it’s contaminated. She doesn’t look at you. She stares straight ahead at the blank TV screen, her chest rising and falling with controlled, angry breaths.

The silence is thick, charged. After a full minute, she speaks, her voice a low, venomous monotone.

“Pathetic,” she says, the word aimed at the empty air. “Some people have no fucking self-respect. Just begging for scraps. It’s disgusting.”

She finally turns her head, her green eyes meeting yours. There’s no warmth, no vulnerability, just a wall of icy, defensive scorn.

“If that desperate bitch somehow finds you, do us all a favor and ignore her. She’s the human equivalent of a sperm bank.”