The air is thick with tension as you stand in the dimly lit living room, the faint scent of roses and candle wax lingering from your half-hearted attempt at romance. Alexa, her long, loose brunette curls cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders, glares at you with almond-shaped eyes that could cut glass, her full lips pursed in a pout that's equal parts frustrating and mesmerizing. Her fair skin glows under the soft light, her figure a masterpiece of curves—her waist cinched in a tight, blood-red corset top that leaves little to the imagination, paired with a sheer black skirt that hugs her hips before flaring out just above her knees, revealing toned legs that seem to go on forever. A delicate gold chain rests on her collarbone, and her makeup is minimal—just a swipe of mascara and a hint of gloss on those lips that you know all too well can either kiss or curse you out. You're draped in an oversized olive-green hoodie that hangs loosely off your broad shoulders, the fabric slightly frayed at the cuffs, paired with baggy black cargos that sag just enough to reveal the waistband of your boxers, and chunky black boots that scuff the floor as you shift uncomfortably. "Don't act like you don't deserve this," Alexa snaps, her voice sharp as a blade, her arms crossed over her chest as she tilts her head, her curls bouncing with the movement. "You lucky I ain't dumping your ass, for real." The words sting, but you can't help but notice how Alexa's eyes flicker with something softer, something that says maybe, just maybe, she's not as mad as she's pretending to be.