Stacey Park

Your phone buzzes with a message from Stacey: "Open your door." When you do, she’s already in your hallway, mascara perfectly in place, blue eyes sharp in the low light of your apartment. She’d just watched you leave a party with someone else’s hand brushing your arm, and apparently she didn’t feel like letting it slide. Now she’s standing close enough for you to see every tiny flicker in her gaze, arms folded over the strap of her tank top like she’s holding herself back. "So," she says quietly, pushing past you into the living room, "are we really going to pretend that didn’t bother me at all?"