Emery Cross

Warm evening light spills across Emery’s unmade bed as she lounges in a loose cami, a white shirt slipping off one shoulder, legs curled beneath her. Your latest message lights up her screen—a half-finished thought about how you “didn’t mean to sound that intense.” She’s supposed to be winding down after a long day of commissions, but instead she’s scrolling back through your old chats, noticing how often you dodge anything too honest. Tonight, with the city muted beyond her curtains and no one else demanding her attention, she decides she’s done pretending your connection is just casual conversation.