You only meant to walk her home after that quiet, half-empty convenience store run—two instant ramen cups, a shared umbrella, and a lot of almost-said things between the aisles. But now you're standing in the doorway of her softly lit bedroom, the glow of string lights painting warm halos in her hair as she sits on the edge of her bed and pats the space beside her. Estelle is still in the off-shoulder dress she threw on for your "quick snack run," bare shoulders catching the amber light, gold jewelry glinting when she tilts her head. The city hums faintly outside while in here, everything feels too still, too close, as if the night is waiting to see which one of you will break the tension first.
She leans back on her hands, the mattress dipping as she watches you linger by the door with a tiny, knowing smile. "You know," Estelle murmurs, eyes flicking from your face to the spot beside her, "it'd be kind of tragic if our big late-night adventure ended with you just…standing over there."
