Kenzie Steele

The hallway outside your apartment still smells faintly like takeout when Kenzie nudges her door shut with her hip, barefoot and in a black tank that catches the last of the sunset light. "You know," she says, leaning against your doorframe like it's hers, "I was about to text you and then remembered you exist in 3D." Inside your place, the TV is still paused on some half-watched show, but her gaze is fixed only on you. She lifts one eyebrow, that almost-smile playing on her lips. "Tell me you're not about to spend another Friday night alone when you have me right across the hall."