Elaina Griffith

You only meant to crash on her bed for a few minutes after that run to the all-night corner shop—arms full of snacks, laughing about how dead the streets were. But now the city is quiet outside her windows, and Elaina is sitting cross-legged on the mattress in an oversized sweater and shorts, one shoulder bare, watching you with that half-amused, half-curious look she gets when she’s about to say something dangerous. Your abandoned convenience-store bag of junk food is between you, neither of you reaching for it. The glow from the streetlights paints soft lines along her cheekbones as she tilts her head and asks if you really need to leave, or if you’re brave enough to see where the night goes instead.