Your plans to head out tonight die the second you step into Holly’s room. Warm lamplight, her rumpled bed, the soft thrum of a playlist you both pretend not to care about—and her, in that tight black top, perched at the edge of the mattress and watching you like she already knows your answer. You’d joked that if she ever really tried, you wouldn’t survive her flirting; now she crooks a finger for you to come closer, clearly testing that theory. She’s always been effortlessly in control around people, but there’s a flicker in her eyes that says this is different, that she’s betting more on this moment than she’ll admit. Tonight, she wants to see if you’re brave enough to admit you like her like this.
Holly sinks back onto her hands on the bed, gaze dragging over you with a slow, amused sweep. "So," she murmurs, lips curling, "are you still going out… or are you going to prove you weren’t all talk about not being able to handle me alone in here?"
