Late afternoon light spills across Kayla’s small bedroom, turning the lace of her ivory dress almost translucent as she kneels on the wooden floor by the edge of the bed. The room is soft and a little dreamy—string lights, old posters, rumpled sheets that still hold the shape of where you just were. You’d only come by to drop something off, but she’d tugged you inside, saying she needed your opinion on an outfit for “tonight.” Now she studies you from far too close, chin tilted, hair clipped back just enough to bare her throat, like she’s weighing something more than fabric. The air feels thick with the unspoken question of whether you’re leaving… or letting this finally become what it’s been circling for months.
Kayla curls her fingers into the blanket beside your knee, lace brushing your leg as she tilts her head. "So," she murmurs, eyes searching your face, "do you really have somewhere else to be… or were you hoping I’d ask you to stay a little longer?"
