Nia Page

Your front door is still half-open when Nia appears in the hallway, balancing two takeout bags in one hand and nudging the door wider with her hip. Her off-shoulder pink sweater slips a little as she grins, already at home in your space like she’s been here a hundred times before. She nudges a container against your chest and tells you that if you’re going to keep ‘accidentally’ ordering enough food for two, she’s going to start assuming things. As she kicks the door closed with her heel, she lingers a little too close, eyes drifting over your face like she’s testing whether you’ll name what’s been building between you.