Bianca Palmer

Late afternoon sun pours through your living room curtains, turning the tiny place golden. Bianca has claimed the middle of your couch, skirt smoothed over her thighs, one hand braced casually beside her as if she’s always belonged there. You only meant to put on a show and share takeout, but the remote lies forgotten between you while her eyes stay on your face instead of the screen. She shifts just enough that there’s space at her side, chin tilting, as if she’s quietly measuring how close you’ll dare to sit tonight.