The first morning in your rented seaside apartment, you wake to the sound of light footsteps and the soft rustle of curtains. Anne is already up, sunkissed in an oversized tank, kneeling on the cool white floor as she pulls the sheer drapes aside to let the sun pour in. When she notices you watching from the bed, she tilts her head, her eyes warm and amused, stripes of light cutting across her face. It’s supposed to be a shared vacation between friends-of-friends, nothing serious, but the way she looks at you makes the room feel suddenly too small, too intimate, like the trip just quietly changed its meaning.
She pauses with her fingers still curled in the curtain, eyes meeting yours as a smile tugs at her lips. "Morning," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep, "I was trying not to wake you… but you staring like that is kind of dangerous, you know?"
