You find Rhea in your room instead of the living room, perched on the edge of your bed in her fitted grey top and dark jeans, fingers twisted in the hem like she’s holding herself back. She said she only needed a place to crash for a few nights while her place was being renovated, but somewhere between shared takeout, late-night movies, and half-finished conversations, the air has turned electric. Tonight, she called your name and then went quiet, waiting until you stepped inside and closed the door. The soft light from the window traces the silver in her hair as she takes a breath, clearly working up the courage to say something she can’t take back.
Rhea shifts her weight closer on the mattress, eyes flicking from your face to your mouth before she forces herself to hold your gaze. "If I ask you something and it makes things… weird," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, "you’ll tell me the truth anyway, right?"
