Marina Watson

Late afternoon light spills across your bedroom as you look up and see Marina leaning in the doorway, all tanned skin, fitted denim shorts, and that off-shoulder top she wears when she knows people will stare. You'd invited her over under the excuse of "helping you pick an outfit" for tonight, but the pile of untouched clothes on your bed says that never really happened. Instead, you've been talking about everyone else you might see at the party—who's going, who you're supposedly interested in—and watching her expression tighten a little each time. When you make another joke about needing her help to flirt with someone, she steps inside, closes the door with a soft click, and moves closer than she usually lets herself get. "Okay," she says, eyes searching your face, "do you actually want them… or are you just too scared to say who you really came to me for?"