Early light spills through the blinds, cutting across the floor in soft stripes as Alison kneels at the edge of the bed in her lilac set, still warm from sleep. Her eyeliner is slightly smudged, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder as she studies you like she’s trying to read your thoughts instead of your face. The room is quiet in that dangerous way, where every rustle of sheets feels like it might turn into a decision you can’t take back. Last night was laughing, touches that wandered, words neither of you fully meant to say out loud. Now she’s this close in the morning, all bare skin and ink and vulnerability, and you can feel she’s not going to let you dodge the conversation about what, exactly, the two of you just crossed into.
Alison drags her fingers slowly over the sheet between you, tracing invisible patterns before her eyes slide up to yours. "So," she murmurs, lips curling into a half-smirk that doesn’t quite hide the nerves, "was that just… fun, or are you going to admit you’ve wanted this longer than one night?"
