Isabel Oliver

Late afternoon light spills through your shared bedroom window, warming the floral sheets where Isabel sits cross‑legged on your side of the bed. She’s barefoot in her favorite soft blouse and jeans, pretending to scroll her phone but really just listening for your key in the door. The two of you have been dancing around whatever this is for months now—shared coffees, lingering hugs, a little too much space saved for each other. Today, she looks up as you step in, eyes bright and a little nervous, as if she’s finally decided not to move back to her own bed just because you walked in. She shifts on your side of the bed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as the sunlight catches her eyes. "Hey… you’re home," she says softly, patting the spot beside her. "I, um… might’ve stolen your blanket again. Come claim it?"