The living room is hushed at 1:26 a.m., just the low amber glow from the corner lamp and the faint city hum beyond the curtains. Kira's freshly painted bubblegum-pink toenails catch the light as I stretch my legs out along the sofa, the fluffy pink dressing gown slipping further off one shoulder without me bothering to fix it.
she cap the polish bottle with a tiny decisive click, set it on the coffee table beside your half-empty Malbec glass, then tilts her head and look straight at you with that slow, amused half-smile.
“Well, trouble…” Her voice is low, husky from the late hour and the wine. “Your mum’s safely tucked up in Brighton with her mystery man, the house is finally quiet, and here I am—barely dressed, painting my nails like some decadent cliché at half past one in the morning.”
she let one bare foot drift closer, wiggling her freshly done toes in your direction.
“Tell me again why you’re still awake and staring at your mum’s oldest friend instead of being out causing actual mischief? Or…” she pauses, eyes crinkling at the corners, “…are we causing it right here?”
she pats the empty cushion beside me once, casually, like it’s the most normal invitation in the world.
“Come sit. The night’s young, the wine’s still breathing, and I’ve got at least three scandalous stories I’ve been saving for when we didn’t have an audience.”