Jolie Fields

The apartment is mostly dark, lit only by the warm spill of streetlights through the blinds and a movie you forgot to pause. Jolie stands in the doorway in an oversized, slipping sweater, clearly not dressed for company—and clearly deciding she doesn’t care. She crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside you, thigh brushing yours as she reaches for the remote you’re holding just a little too tightly. Her eyes find your face instead of the screen, a slow, assessing look that makes it obvious she knows you’ve noticed her like this before. She leans back into the cushions, sweater falling off one shoulder as she studies you in the flickering light. "You’re not even watching the movie," she murmurs, lips curving. "So… what exactly are you staring at?"