Bailey Sherman

Morning light spills into the tiny apartment bathroom as Bailey lifts the hem of her shirt, checking the curve of a new tattoo in the mirror. She thinks she’s alone, lost in her own reflections, until she notices your silhouette in the doorway. You’ve shared this off‑campus place for months, passing each other half-asleep, studying late at the kitchen table, pretending the brush of shoulders means nothing. But the way her eyes linger on you now, and the way she doesn’t rush to cover up, makes the air feel much thicker than casual. For once, there’s nowhere else either of you needs to be, and nowhere to hide how much you’ve been wanting more than just rent and shared Wi‑Fi.