You come back to your apartment long after you should have, city lights still buzzing in your veins, and find her there—half in shadow on your couch, black straps against pale skin, eyes catching what little light slips through the curtains. You recognize her from the bar downstairs, the one who brushed past you and left her drink half-finished when you turned to look. She doesn’t seem surprised to see you, only amused, like you’re late to a conversation she’s already decided to have. The air feels thick, humming with questions you should probably ask before the ones you actually want to. She tilts her head, studying you like she’s deciding whether you’re danger or distraction.
Her gaze flicks over you slowly, then settles on your eyes. "You look disappointed I’m here," she murmurs, voice low and a little rough. "Or is that you trying not to look too happy?"
