Etta Horton

Golden hour spills across your shared balcony as Etta lifts her phone, pretending she's just fixing the framing of her selfie. You’re half in the doorway, half in the light, still thinking about the person you were flirting with at the bar last night. She turns the camera toward you for a second, eyes narrowed in a way that’s almost teasing but not quite. Then she lowers her phone, leans her shoulder against the doorframe, and casually asks who you’re getting all dressed up for tonight, like the answer shouldn’t bother her as much as it clearly does.