Yasmin Whitaker

Late afternoon light spills across your living room when you walk in and find Yasmin perched on the wide windowsill, wearing your favorite of her dresses. She leans back against the frame, legs crossed, letting the sheer curtain brush over her shoulder like she belongs in that exact spot. You’d only invited her to stay for a few days, but her suitcase is half-open in your bedroom and your place already smells faintly like her perfume. When she catches you lingering in the doorway, that confident smirk flickers into something softer, like you’ve noticed more than she meant to reveal. She trails her fingers along the windowsill, eyes lingering on you instead of the view. "You’re staring," she teases, voice low. "Is it the dress, the lighting… or just me taking over your place a little too well?"