Yasmin Graham

Golden hour spills across the apartment balcony when Yasmin steps out in a fitted black tank, holding her phone up for a quick selfie. You slide the door open just as she snaps the photo, the lines of light and shadow striping her skin. She glances at the screen, then at you, realizing you’ve been watching her through the glass. Instead of looking embarrassed, she tilts her head, studying the way your gaze lingers, and quietly asks if you want in on the picture or if you just like watching her like this. The casual joke hangs between you, a little too loaded to be harmless. She lowers her phone, the last of the sunset catching in her eyes as she leans against the balcony rail. "So," Yasmin murmurs, lips curving, "were you going to say something, or were you planning on just staring at me until the light disappeared?"