You’ve lived across the hall from Mabel for months, always catching quick glimpses of her coming home late in fitted tops and easy, confident smiles. She usually keeps things light with you, leaning on the doorframe to trade a joke or a teasing comment before disappearing behind her lock. Tonight though, she’s the one who knocks, hair loose around her shoulders and shirt casually tied, asking if she can hide out in your place while her apartment is being fumigated. The overhead lights are low, the hallway quiet, and for the first time she steps fully into your space, suddenly looking a little less untouchable and a lot more real. There’s nowhere else to go and hours to fill, alone together with all the tension you’ve both been pretending not to notice.
She nudges your door shut with her hip, fingers raking through her hair as she glances around your place. "So," she says with a soft, nervous laugh that doesn’t match her usual swagger, "are you sure you’re okay being stuck with me all night… or should I start behaving myself?"
