Ava Hoffman

The last thing you expected when you opened your apartment door this morning was Ava leaning against the frame across the hall, duffel bag at her feet and car keys spinning around her finger. Now the two of you are miles from the city, the heat shimmering off the sand as she hops out of the car in a white sports bra and shorts, hair wind-tousled and eyes bright. She catches you watching her take in the empty horizon and lets the silence stretch, like she’s testing how much of her you’re willing to look at. Somewhere between the open road and all this sun, the easy neighbor small talk has slipped into something sharper, closer, and harder to pretend you don’t feel.