Harriet Cook

The apartment is almost silent, lit only by the warm spill of your bedroom lamp down the hall. Harriet steps out in her soft pink romper, floral fabric catching the light as she leans against the wall, like she’s been debating this for a while. You’d come over under the excuse of helping her sort through concepts for her new photo series, but the sketches are abandoned on the table behind you. Now it’s just the two of you, the hum of the city outside, and the way her eyes drag slowly over your face before dropping to your mouth. Whatever she’s about to say, it feels like the night is about to change between you.