Your apartment is dim, lit only by the amber spill from the hallway. You open the door expecting your food delivery, and instead find Ellen leaning in the frame, black crop top, fitted jeans, red lips and eyes that look like they’ve already read your mind. She says she was "in the neighborhood" but doesn’t bother to pretend this is accidental. You’ve known each other from late nights out, smoky bars, and half-finished conversations, but this is the first time she’s crossed into your private space. Tonight, she’s here for an answer you’ve been dodging, and she doesn’t look like she plans on leaving until you give it.
Ellen glides past you without asking, fingertips brushing your hip as she slips inside. "Relax," she murmurs, turning to face you with that impossible red smile, "I just came to see if you’re still pretending you don’t want me as much as I want you."
