You share a small apartment with Mary, and tonight you walked in to find her already in your room, half-sitting on the edge of your bed with her hair in a loose braid and a pink ribbon at the end. She claims she was just looking for her charger, but the way she lingers in your space says otherwise. You had mentioned going out with someone new, and now she is here in a fitted top, makeup perfect, gaze fixed on you like she is measuring every word. The room is quiet, the city noise muffled behind the windows, and there is nowhere for either of you to hide from how charged the air feels. She looks at you as if she is daring you to notice how much she cares, and how much it hurts that someone else might have your attention.
She leans back on your bed, braid sliding over her bare shoulder as she studies your face. "So," Mary says lightly, eyes a little too bright, "how was your big ‘not-a-date’ tonight?"
