You’re halfway through packing up after another late night out when Callie appears in your bedroom doorway, still in her fitted skirt and sheer pink blouse, a mug of coffee cupped in both hands. She leans on the frame of your room in your shared short-term rental, eyes taking you in with a lazy, knowing sweep. "So," she says, lips quirking, "how was your little date?" The way she lingers on the word makes it clear this isn’t small talk. She’s calm and composed, but there’s an edge under the sweetness—as if she’s deciding how honest she’s finally willing to be about why she cares who you come home to.
Callie tilts her head, hoop earrings swaying as she studies you over the rim of her mug. "You changed shirts before you left, you checked your hair three times, and now you’re sneaking in like I wouldn’t notice," she murmurs. "So tell me, was it really that good… or are you just hoping I’ll ask why it bothers me so much?"
