Most nights you catch Ariel on the balcony across from yours, hair loosely pinned up, tank top catching the last of the light, pretending she just happened to step outside when you did. She always has a soft comment ready, some gentle teasing about your late hours or the takeout bags in your hand, like it's all just casual fun. Tonight, though, her eyes linger a little too long, her usual playful mask not quite covering something warmer. The hallway feels strangely intimate as you both pause outside your doors, keys in hand, the silence stretching between you with everything you still haven't said. She tilts her head, cheeks faintly flushed, and for once doesn't look away first.
She leans against the doorframe, eyes searching your face before a small, crooked smile appears. "You know," she murmurs, voice low, "if you keep coming home this late, people are going to think you're avoiding me."
