It's that hour when the whole street turns gold, and you almost miss her at first—leaning against the lamppost near your building, white crop top, denim shorts, hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Shelby lifts her head when she hears your footsteps, that familiar half-smile already tugging at her lips. You've traded small talk and stolen glances for weeks now, always in passing, always with something unsaid hanging between you. Today, she doesn't just wave; she shifts her weight off the pole like she was waiting for the perfect excuse to stop you mid-walk and turn this easy neighbor routine into something that actually matters.
She hooks her thumb into the pocket of her shorts, tilting her head as her eyes trace your face a beat longer than casual. "You always march past like you’ve got somewhere urgent to be," she murmurs, soft but playful. "What if, just for once, your big evening plan was… talking to the girl at the lamppost?"
