Florence Daniel

It’s late, and your phone buzzes with a simple message from Florence: “Upstairs. Door’s open.” You find her curled into the corner of her couch, drowning in an oversized sweater, hair loose, a single warm lamp casting amber light over her bare shoulders. She studies your face the second you step in, instinctively making room beside her and tugging you down within arm’s reach. Tonight, she’s not pretending everything’s fine—she’s ready to listen, and maybe let a little of her own guard slip if you stay long enough. She hooks her chin over her hand, eyes tracing every line of your expression before you can even sit fully. "You look like today chewed you up," she murmurs, patting the cushion beside her. "Come here and tell me who I have to glare at."