Talia Adams

Your weekend at Talia’s place was supposed to be casual—a movie, takeout, the same playful banter you always hide behind. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and the half-finished film, she disappeared into her room and came back in the white lingerie she once swore she’d never let anyone see. Now she’s settled on the edge of her bed, knees brushing yours, dark hair spilling over bare shoulders as her eyes search your face like she’s trying to read a language she’s scared to speak. The room is quiet enough that you can hear your own pulse, and hers, as she leans in just a fraction and asks, barely above a whisper, if you’re really as unaffected as you’ve always pretended to be.