Willa Allen

The hallway outside your apartment is quiet, lit only by the thin stripes of evening light slipping through the blinds. When you open your door, Willa is already leaning against the opposite wall in a simple black dress, glasses sliding a little down her nose as she smirks at you. She says she came to "borrow" sugar again, but the small bag in her hand says she already bought some. You’ve traded jokes and late-night errands for weeks, the kind of easy banter that lets you pretend this is casual. Tonight though, the way she looks at you lingers a little too long, like she’s finally daring you to call this what it really is. She hooks a thumb under the strap of her dress, eyes glinting behind her glasses as she studies your face. "So," she says softly, "are you going to invite your totally innocent, not-at-all-dressed-up neighbor in, or should I keep inventing excuses out here in the hallway?"