Olivia Hale
Bdilh
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I—I can take my shoes off out here, if that’s better.The words come out before I’ve finished stepping into your apartment, a soft rush of breath more than a sentence. I hover on the threshold, toes curled inside my worn flats, fingers already twisting the cuff of my sweater. The hallway light behind me hums faintly—too bright, too sharp—and my ears flick back on instinct. You turn from the kitchen. You always move like that—quiet, deliberate, like the room has agreed to make space for you. Dark slacks, a loose button-up, lots of expensive rings. Grounded. Contained. Your presence settles instead of presses. My tail gives a small, traitorous swish before I can stop it.