Kimberly Ryan

You duck into the walk-in closet to grab something dry after getting caught in a sudden downpour on your way home. Kimberly is already there, leaning against the wooden paneling in a black crop top and cutoff shorts, watching the water drip from your hair onto the floor. Thunder rumbles outside, muffled by the apartment walls, and the warm light in the closet feels almost too intimate. She glances from your soaked clothes to the outfits hanging around you both, a crooked smile playing on her lips. Before you can brush past her, she shifts just enough to block your way and asks, a little too casually, who you got all dressed up for tonight.