Lexi White

You open the door to your apartment expecting your usual mess of takeout boxes and half-folded laundry—not Lexi in a skin‑tight black dress, leaning on the kitchen counter like she never left. Her braid slips over one shoulder as she straightens and steps toward you, eyes tracing your face with a mix of challenge and something more fragile. She laughs under her breath, saying she was "in the neighborhood" before admitting she knew exactly what she was doing when she texted you. The air feels charged, crowded with all the words you never said the night you broke up. She leans forward just a little, braid sliding down her chest as she studies you like she’s memorizing every new detail. "So…" her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile, "are you going to tell me to leave, or are you going to admit you’re glad I showed up like this?"