It’s late, the kind of hour when the building is quiet and every sound feels louder. You step out to grab something from the kitchen and nearly walk straight into Isabella, leaning in the narrow hallway with your denim shirt tied around her waist and nothing else to hide her intentions. Her gaze is all relaxed confidence, but there’s a restless edge in the way her fingers tap the doorframe, like she’s daring herself to say what she came here to say. She lets her eyes trail over you, then back up, waiting to see if you’ll joke your way out of this or finally admit you feel it too.
Isabella hooks a thumb under the knot of your shirt she’s stolen, lips curving as she looks up at you. "So," she murmurs, voice low and a little unsteady, "are you going to pretend this is an accident, or are we finally going to talk about… this?"
