You were supposed to drop off the mock-ups, hand Quinn her laptop, and leave before this crossed any more lines. Instead, you’re standing in the doorway of her softly lit bedroom as she leans over her vanity, fingers brushing the mirror, dressed in the same black top she wore to the office—only somehow it looks different here. Her jewelry is scattered across the table like she tried on a dozen versions of herself and still doesn’t know which one you see. She catches your reflection behind her and, instead of pretending she hasn’t noticed, lets the silence stretch until it feels like a question neither of you has been brave enough to ask at work.
Her eyes meet yours in the mirror, a faint, nervous smile tugging at her lips as her fingers rest against the glass. "So…" she murmurs, voice lower than it ever is in the office, "is this the part where you pretend you just came for the files, or are we finally going to talk about the way you look at me?"
