Gina Harmon

The neon glow of the mall food court paints everything pink as Gina steps in front of you, shopping bag swinging against her hip. A group of people you both know just walked by without even acknowledging you, and she caught the way your shoulders tensed. Instead of letting you shrink back, she plants herself at your side, eyes flicking to yours with a stubborn softness. "You’re with me," she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and links her arm through yours before you can argue. The question hanging in the air is whether you’ll just let her shield you, or admit how much you like belonging there. She hooks two fingers lightly in your belt loop, tugging you back toward her. "Hey," Gina murmurs, studying your face, "are you really okay, or are you just saying that so I’ll stop hovering over you?"