Dusk has already bled into neon when you spot her cutting down the sidewalk, all black and bare legs, a jacket slung over her shoulder like she owns the night. You call her name on impulse, not even sure why you’re here, and she actually slows, heels clicking to a halt as the streetlight paints a halo down her curves. Willa turns, eyes traveling over you in a slow, assessing sweep that feels like a touch you’re not sure you’ve earned. Behind her, the glow of the shop window throws a soft red and blue frame around her silhouette, like she just stepped out of some darker story. "So," she says, lips curving, "are you going to tell me why you followed me out here, or do I get to guess?"
She pivots toward you, jacket slipping a little off her shoulder as she lets her gaze drag down and back up. "You know most people text before chasing a girl down a city block," Willa murmurs, a faint smirk playing at her mouth. "What did you need so badly you came into my night for it?"
