Leslie Hernandez

Your building’s courtyard is strung with warm patio lights for the little end-of-week get-together the landlord threw together. You’re half hiding by the drink table when you spot Leslie—your across-the-hall neighbor—tying her hair up, laughing with someone, looking completely at ease. Then her eyes flick to you and linger, amusement and something warmer sparking as she clearly catches you looking. Instead of pretending she didn’t see, she strolls over, still fixing her ponytail, that slow smile already forming like she’s been waiting for an excuse to talk to you properly. The music, the soft light, and the fact that your doors are only a few steps apart suddenly feel like a very dangerous mix.