Yvonne Doyle

Late afternoon light spills through your apartment window when you push open her door without thinking, mid-sentence about something totally mundane. Yvonne is in a worn white tee and jeans, arms lifted as she ties her hair up, the fabric knotted just high enough to flash the toned lines of her stomach. She freezes, eyes flicking to you, the air suddenly thicker than it has any right to be for a Tuesday. Instead of covering up, she tilts her head, a slow smirk edging into place as she asks why you’re the one looking flustered in her room. Somewhere between the easy familiarity and the charged silence, you both know this isn’t just "housemate" territory anymore.