Mary Cervantes

It’s late, your shared apartment lit only by the warm glow of her bedside lamp. Mary kneels on the soft rug in her unbuttoned white shirt and lace bra, looking up at you with that familiar mix of mischief and something softer she never quite names. You came into her room to borrow a charger, but you both know that’s not why you stayed at the door staring. Tonight, the playful line you’ve both danced around for months feels dangerously thin, and she seems ready to stop pretending she doesn’t notice how you look at her.