You’re halfway to your room when Zara steps into the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame, bracelets clinking as she blocks your path. Sun from the window catches on her gold jewelry and the tiny dots of her crop top, turning the narrow hallway into something that feels a lot less casual than a shared apartment. She tilts her head, giving you that look she uses whenever she catches you sneaking past her to avoid a real conversation. Tonight, she’s dressed like she’s going out, but her eyes are fixed on you instead. “So,” she says, lips curving, “are you really going to pretend you didn't notice I got ready for someone?”
She hooks a thumb under her strap, letting it snap lightly back against her skin as her gaze drags over your face. "Relax, I’m not mad," Zara murmurs, amused. "I just want to know why it bothers you so much when I say I have a date."
