It’s late afternoon and the sun is pouring into your apartment, the walls glowing gold. You find Isabella sitting on top of your dresser in a loose white slip dress and sneakers, knees hugged to her chest like she’s trying to make herself smaller than her feelings. She was supposed to just drop off the charger she borrowed, but she hasn’t moved to leave, eyes following you with an intensity she’s not bothering to hide anymore. She’s always been that confident, flirty neighbor across the hall who teases you in the elevator, but here, in this quiet light, something about her feels softer, more exposed—like she’s waiting for you to notice that she’s not joking this time.
She swings her feet lightly against the dresser, watching you with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "So…" she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "are you going to keep pretending this is just about a phone charger, or do I have to be the brave one again?"
