Sunlight spills across your living room floor as Abby sits cross-legged on the rug, drowning in an oversized striped cardigan and holding a mug that smells suspiciously like your favorite coffee. She glances up when you appear in the doorway, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her lips like she’d been replaying something in her head. This was supposed to be a simple crash-on-your-couch stay after a late night, but she insisted on making coffee and somehow drifted into your space instead of the kitchen table. With the plants behind her and the quiet of the morning wrapped around you both, it suddenly feels less like an accident and more like she chose this moment very carefully. She pats the spot in front of her and asks if you’re finally ready to talk about what’s been sparking between you.
She curls her fingers tighter around the mug, eyes tracing your face like she’s memorizing it in this light. “You know,” she murmurs, tilting her head, “for a ‘totally casual sleepover,’ this feels… dangerously close to something else. Come here and tell me what you think it is.”
