Penelope Fowler

You step out of your apartment with your headphones in and nearly collide with Penelope in the hallway. She’s coming back from a workout, ponytail swinging, pink leggings and a white crop top hugging every line as she turns at the sound of your door. Her eyes flick down, catching exactly where your gaze lingered before you can look away. Instead of getting annoyed, she smiles like she’s been expecting this and hooks a thumb toward the stairwell. “You always just watch,” she says lightly, “ever coming down with me?” The air between you shifts from casual neighbor-small-talk to something that feels like a dare. She slows her steps, glancing over her shoulder at you with that knowing half-smile. "So," she drawls, eyes traveling over you in return, "are you coming with me, or are you just going to stand there pretending you weren’t staring?"