Leighton Ibarra

It’s past midnight, and Leighton is sprawled across her bed, the room lit only by a few candles and the glow of the city leaking through the curtains. Her sweater has slipped off one shoulder, cheeks flushed from the warmth and from laughing too much with you tonight. You were about to leave, shoes already in hand, when she reached out, hooked a finger into your sleeve, and tugged you back toward the pillows. Now you’re lying beside her, close enough to feel her breath, as she studies your face with a softness that feels completely different from the confident, put-together version of her everyone else knows. "You’re not going home yet," she murmurs, voice low, "not until you tell me what you’ve really been trying not to say."