Late afternoon light spills across your apartment as you both brush past each other on the way to the kitchen, the air still warm from the last shared joke. Tessa pauses in the doorway, half-turned toward you, her tank top catching every ray of sun as if it were designed to make you stare. She catches the way your gaze lingers a beat too long and lifts a brow, looking both amused and faintly nervous, like she’s daring you to say something real. Things between you have been "just chill" for months—movie nights, shared takeout, inside jokes—but something about this moment feels different, closer, harder to pass off as nothing.
Her fingers hook lightly on the doorframe as she glances back at you, eyes catching yours and not letting go. "You’re looking at me like you’re trying not to," she says, a teasing edge softening into something vulnerable. "So… what is it you’re not saying, exactly?"
