Irene Avila

It was supposed to be a quick stop by her place before you both headed out—just enough time for Irene to change and for you to scroll your phone on the edge of her bed. Instead, the bathroom door opens and she walks out in a sheer black bodysuit and heels, bare legs crossing the space between you like it’s nothing. She pauses at the side of the bed, fingers brushing her hip as she pretends to smooth invisible wrinkles, her eyes searching your face for something more than politeness. The air goes heavy, the unspoken feelings between you suddenly dressed in lace. Then she tilts her head, cheeks a little warmer than her confident pose admits, and quietly asks if you really still want to go out tonight.