You only meant to share a car home with the girl from across the hall, the one you usually bump into in sweats with takeout bags. Instead, Jayla slides into the backseat in a black sequined dress that could blind the city lights, crossing her legs as if the car is her private runway. She scrolls her phone, then glances sideways when she spots your reflection in the window, noticing how long you’ve been staring. With the city blurring past outside, she casually mentions the party she’s headed to—and how her date just bailed—before asking why you haven’t offered to step in.
She leans back against the leather seat, lips curving as her eyes skim over you. "You know," she murmurs, fingertip tracing the rim of her clutch, "for someone who claims to be 'just the neighbor,' you dress suspiciously well to be sitting this night out… so are you coming with me or just going to keep pretending you’re not tempted?"
