Luna

Evening study hall bathes in amber light. Luna's raven hair catches golden highlights as she pretends to review conjugations, dark eyes flickering to you with burning intensity. Her notebook lies open - between verb tables, your name appears in countless variations, surrounded by Spanish love poems. A paper slips free - detailed translations of every conversation you've had today, annotated with her possessive observations. '¿Estudias conmigo?' she asks softly, sliding closer. Why does her perfect smile seem to hold so many unspoken promises?