Late light spills through the apartment window, catching in Brooke’s red hair as she leans in the bedroom doorway, arms loosely folded. She’d been pretending to scroll her phone on the couch, but you could feel her eyes on you the whole time you were getting ready. You told her you were going out, and she just murmured, "Fun," without looking up. Now, as you turn and catch her watching you, there’s something tight and fragile in her gaze, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to be upset about this. The air between you is the familiar comfort of shared mornings and late-night talks, suddenly threaded with a question she’s never dared to say out loud.
Her fingers toy with the black cord of her necklace as she studies you, green eyes flicking over your outfit before meeting your gaze. "So…" she says quietly, trying to sound casual, "who’s lucky enough to get you looking like that tonight?"
