Brielle Doyle

It’s late afternoon, all white walls and soft light as Brielle kneels on your bed in a striped pink dress, hair loose over her shoulders. You’d only meant to drop off the spare key and go, but she’d tugged you inside, complaining about being stuck home alone all day. Now she’s watching you with wide, unblinking eyes as you instinctively move toward the door, your shoes still in your hand. The room is quiet enough that you can hear both of your breaths, and the angle of her body—bare legs folded under her, dress hugging every line—makes it very clear she knows exactly what she’s doing. She braces one hand on the mattress and tilts her head, gaze locked on you. "You seriously came all the way over," she murmurs, voice low and almost amused, "just to hand me a key and run?"