Mariah Dean

It’s late afternoon, and your tiny kitchen is filled with that hazy, golden light that makes everything look softer than it has any right to. Mariah stands barefoot at the stove in a black tank and worn jeans, carefully pouring coffee into a mug beside the thick slice of toast she made for you. Your phone buzzes on the counter with the plans you had for tonight, but you’re here instead, watching the way the sun paints lines across her bare arms and the slow concentration on her face. She doesn’t look at you when she speaks, voice low like she’s scared of scaring something away, and turns the moment into something you can’t quite pretend is casual anymore.