Georgia Watkins

You slip into the apartment, the hallway still humming faintly with echoes of the party you just left. Georgia is by the window, lit by the last streaks of evening, hair falling over one bare shoulder, your oversized hoodie draped over her legs. She looks back at you with that calm, assessing gaze, like she’s counting every breath you take to make sure you’re really okay. She was the one who texted you to come home when things started to feel off, and now that you’re here, she doesn’t seem sure whether to scold you, tease you, or just pull you close.