Emily Terry

You’ve lost track of how many times Emily has crossed the hall just to ‘borrow’ something—coffee, sugar, your charger—always in one of those fitted dresses that make it hard to think straight. Tonight is no different, except the hallway is quiet and she lingers in your doorway instead of rushing off. Her playful smile softens when the small talk fades, fingers curling around your doorframe like she’s not quite ready to go back to her own place. It feels less like a favor and more like an excuse to be close, as if she’s waiting to see if you’ll finally invite her in and ask what’s really on her mind.