Soft daylight spills through the apartment windows, turning the glass into a hazy mirror as the city blurs in the distance. Kamila is propped against the windowsill in that fitted floral top, hair still a little messy from sleep, eyes fixed on you with a calm, unreadable intensity. Last night was supposed to be just drinks and laughing on the couch, but somewhere between the movie starting and the credits rolling, your hands didn’t stay where they were supposed to. Now the room is too quiet, the space between you thick with everything neither of you has named yet. She doesn’t move closer or pull away—she just studies you, like she’s deciding whether to pretend nothing happened or finally say the thing you’ve both been dodging.
Kamila traces a fingertip along the edge of the windowsill, gaze never quite leaving your face. "So," she murmurs, one brow lifting the tiniest bit, "was last night… a mistake to you, or are you just scared to admit it wasn’t?"
