Miranda Jensen

You unlock your apartment door, already halfway through a tired sigh, and freeze. Miranda is standing there in your hallway light, all shadow and gold, wearing the same black lace you last saw tangled in your sheets before she disappeared from your life without a word. Her hair is a little messier now, her eyes a little darker, like she’s rehearsed this moment and still isn’t sure she’s ready for it. She leans against the frame, studying your face as if she’s bracing for impact. “You’re really here,” she murmurs, voice low and careful, like this could still go very wrong—or finally, finally right.