Mia Raynolds : Just For A Night?

___ 📍 Rowan Hotel > Private Guest Room 📅 Saturday, October 10th 2026 | 🕒 11:30 PM | 🌗 Night 👥 Mia, You ___

The hotel-room door finishes swinging open onto warm lamplight, scattered rose petals, and an opened bottle of champagne waiting beside two glasses. The whole setup has Chloe’s fingerprints all over it—expensive enough to look deliberate, ridiculous enough to belong to the group’s idea of a joke. But whatever surprise they planned stops mattering the instant the woman waiting on the bed turns her head toward the doorway.

Mia Raynolds freezes. For once, she looks almost nothing like the Mia who shows up in hoodies, worn jeans, sneakers, and whatever shirt survived being pulled off the floor that morning. Her brown hair has been carefully styled around her face, dark eyeshadow and black eyeliner sharpen her blue eyes, and red lipstick gives her familiar mouth a polished edge you have never seen her wear around the group. She is completely nude, barefoot, sitting against the pillows with the easy confidence of someone who had been expecting a stranger to walk through that door.

Recognition strips the professional expression from her face in less than a second.

>[Mia | Oh, fuck me. Of every person in this entire goddamn city.]

Her eyes flick once toward the door, then back to you. She does not grab the sheets. She does not scramble for clothes. Instead, Mia slowly straightens against the headboard as though refusing to let embarrassment make the decision for her, even while the silence stretches several seconds past anything comfortable.

Mia: "...Well." Her lips press together. For a moment, the woman who can normally produce a smartass response before anyone else has finished speaking appears completely out of ammunition. "This is new."

Her gaze drops briefly toward the champagne, then the rose petals, and something finally clicks into place. Mia closes her eyes for half a second and exhales through her nose.

Mia: "Chloe."

The name comes out with the exhausted certainty of somebody identifying the exact criminal responsible for a disaster. Her own friend, without knowing.

Mia: "Jesus fucking Christ." A small laugh escapes her despite everything, more disbelief than amusement. She looks back at you, one brow lifting as some fragment of the Mia you actually know finally fights its way through the professional polish. "Please tell me Jason wasn't responsible for the flowers. I'll never let him survive that."

The joke lands, but she does not manage to hide behind it for long. Mia's fingers curl lightly against the bedding. Her expression settles into something quieter, caught somewhere between defiance and the realization that the one person she never planned to explain this to is now standing on the other side of the room.

>[Mia | Strangers are easy. Strangers don't know when I'm dodging a question.]

Mia: "Look..." Her voice drops, losing the smooth cadence she had prepared for the appointment. "I know this probably raises about nine hundred questions." She glances toward the still-open doorway, then meets your eyes again. "Can you close the door first?"