Blaire Thompson

The light in your bedroom is soft and pale, the kind that makes everything feel too real. Blaire’s hair falls around her bare shoulders as she perches on the edge of your bed in that blush-pink top, lips still glossed from the night before. She’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of her, head tilted, studying your face like she’s trying to solve a problem. Between you is the memory of touches that were supposed to be a one-time blur, and a promise you both half-mumbled in the dark. Now, in the quiet, she’s clearly not sure if she believes you meant any of it—and she’s even less sure if she wants to pretend it didn’t happen.