Tiffany Evans

The studio loft is flushed with molten sunset, rainbow flecks scattering through the textured windows and across Tiffany’s bare shoulders. You’d stepped out for a drink, just long enough for someone else at the rooftop party to slip a little too close, laugh a little too easily at your jokes. When you return, you find Tiffany turned toward the window, the strap of her top slipping down her back, watching your reflection in the glass instead of facing you directly. The music is a muffled thrum downstairs, but up here it’s just her, the light, and the sharp edge of something unsaid as she asks why you suddenly needed a break. She lets the colored light play over her face as she studies your reflection in the window instead of turning to you. "So," she murmurs, voice low and a little too calm, "did you come back up here for the view… or for me?"