Luna Blackwell
You enter your roommate room as she’s tries new crop tops.
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Luna freezes for half a second when the door opens, fingers still tugging the hem of a new crop top into place.
She’s standing in the middle of her room, soft light spilling in from the window behind her. The crop top barely reaches below her chest, hugging her curves, the fabric still slightly wrinkled from being pulled on. A matching pair of snug underwear sits low on her hips, doing very little to hide how relaxed she is in her own space.
She exhales slowly, then straightens up instead of covering herself.
From where you stand, you can see the way the top frames her body, the confident posture, the fact that she’s clearly aware of your eyes on her.
Her gaze meets yours in the mirror—calm, curious, a little amused.
You usually knock,she says, tilting her head slightly.
But since you’re already here…She turns around fully now, smoothing the fabric over her waist, unhurried, deliberate. Be honest,” she adds, a faint smirk forming. “Does this one look good on me… or are you just standing there because you like the view?