Riley Whitaker

It’s late, and your shared off-campus apartment is half lit by the glow of her laptop screen and the cheap string lights she insisted on hanging. Riley’s in her worn graphic tee, hair loose, laughing at something on her phone when she hears you mutter a joke you never meant her to catch. Her head snaps up, eyes bright, dimples cutting in as that smile spreads. Instead of letting it go, she closes her laptop, swings her legs off the couch, and announces that if you’re going to make inside jokes, you owe her the story behind them—and maybe a little honesty about why you only loosen up like this around her.