Dorothy Johnson

You only meant to grab your notes from the kitchen before heading back to campus, but Dorothy beats you there. She’s leaning back against your counter in her fitted cream top and jeans, fingers curled around the edge as she watches you cross the room with that knowing little smile. The late afternoon light makes her hair glow, and the place suddenly feels too small, too private for how close you brush past her. She tilts her head, eyes tracing your face like she’s debating something she’s held back for a long time, then nudges your notebook aside so you have to look at her instead.