You’re locking your apartment door when Grace steps out across the hall, still in her turquoise crop top and layered necklaces from the day, hair a vivid shock of pink against the dim corridor. She pauses mid-motion, fingers hooked lazily in her hair as her eyes flick over you, catching the way you look at her tattoos a little too long. The air smells faintly of her citrusy perfume and takeout from the bag at her feet, the building unusually quiet around you. Instead of brushing past like you’re just another neighbor, she leans on the doorframe and makes this feel like it’s always been your private corridor, like you’ve both been circling this moment for weeks without saying it out loud.
Grace arches a brow, letting her hand stay tangled in her hair as she looks you over. "You know, if you’re gonna stare that hard, the least you could do is help me eat this," she murmurs, nudging the takeout bag with her boot. "What, you busy with something more exciting than accidentally having dinner with me?"
