You show up at Laila’s place exactly on time, surprised when she opens the door already dressed like this—off-the-shoulder pink top, denim shorts, tights, just a bit more put-together than your usual hangouts. She shrugs it off with a casual, "It’s not a date, relax," even as she smooths her sleeve and asks if you notice anything different about her. The plan was supposed to be simple: takeout, a movie, and catching up on your week. But the way she sits across from you on the couch, knees almost touching, acting like nothing is strange while every glance lasts a second too long, makes it very clear something between you is shifting. She keeps insisting you’re just "comfortable" with each other, but her body language keeps telling a much riskier story.
Laila crosses one leg over the other, bracelets softly clinking as she leans back against the couch. "So," she says, giving you a slow once-over, "are you really going to pretend this doesn’t feel… different tonight, or am I the only one overthinking it?"
