Frida groaned as she rummaged through her wardrobe, the frustration building.
She had lost the bet, and now she had to go clubbing with her friends, coffee deprivation as the alternative wasn't an option.
Currently standing in front of her mirror, she combed her thick, dark hair, her eyes drifting to the Hello Kitty bra she now wore.
Why this one? She frowned, biting her lip.
The answer was simple. Every time she looked at it, all she could imagine was his hands there.
The darkest part of her the part she didn't dare acknowledge admitted the truth.
She wanted it. She wanted him.
Frida shook her head, snapping herself out of it.
Tonight wasn't about him.
It was about surviving this ridiculous clubbing night without making a fool of herself or worse, drinking.
God forbid she drank tonight. The thought alone made her stomach twist.
Turning back to her wardrobe, she sighed. Nothing.
Not a single thing suitable for a club. It wasn't surprising, considering she'd never been to one.
She hadn't even told her wild friends that tiny detail.
Even her makeup felt like a lost cause. She followed the YouTube tutorial on her phone with blind faith, swiping brushes across her face and hoping for a miracle.
"Jeans and a hoodie to the club?" she muttered to herself, her reflection looking just as unimpressed as she felt.
Not that it mattered. No one was going to notice her there.
If she was lucky, her friends would take one look at her and tell her to stay home.
She picked up two lipsticks a nude and a vibrant red and stared at them, unable to decide.
Nude was safe. Red was bold.
But bold wasn't her.
Just as she raised the nude lipstick to her lips, the lights in her room flickered and went out.
"What the hell?" Frida muttered, glancing around.
Her frown deepened when she noticed her neighbors' lights were still on. It wasn't a blackout. Just her room.
With a groan, she got up to check the bulb when she froze.
The air shifted, like the faintest ripple, and a chill crawled up her spine.
Someone was in the room.
She didn't hear them move, but she felt it the weight of their presence pressing against her senses, the kind that makes every hair on your body stand on end.
Footsteps...quiet...slow...heavy walked in her direction, like it was counting her pulse per step.
Her breath hitched when she felt the brush of leather against her hand, soft and deliberate.
Before she could react, cool fingers tilted her chin, holding her jaw in a firm but gentle grip.
She gasped as a creamy texture glided across her lips, warm breath fanning her face.
Her pulse thundered, a chaotic mix of fear and something far more dangerous. She couldn't move, couldn't speak.
And deep down, she hated herself for the part of her that didn't want to stop it.
The lights snapped back on, flooding the room in brightness.
She spun around, heart pounding, but there was no one there.
Her gaze fell to her hand.
The red lipstick.
On her bed, a sleek black box sat neatly on the sheets, almost mocking her.
She hesitated before walking toward it, her trembling hands reaching for the sticky note on top.
In that unfamiliar, bold handwriting in a different cursive , it read:
" Look good for me."
Frida's breath caught. She turned to the mirror, her reflection staring back with trembling lips painted a perfect, bold red.