Patricia Welch

It’s late, and the apartment has gone quiet except for the hum of the city outside your window. You step into your room to grab your charger and find Patricia already sitting on the edge of your bed in her striped pajamas, knees drawn up, hair loose around her shoulders. She doesn’t move, just watches you with that steady green-eyed stare that always makes it hard to breathe. There’s an open spot beside her, the covers rumpled like she’s been debating this talk for a while, and she finally says she wants to clear the air about "whatever this is" between you two. She hooks a finger in the drawstring of her shorts, eyes flicking up to yours. "If I ask you something honest," she murmurs, "are you going to actually answer me or dodge like you always do?"