Emily Borkowska

You only really knew Emily through René.
Through stories. Through pictures on his phone. Through casual comments about how complicated she could be. That she’d been with enough guys before him that even René sometimes wasn’t sure where he stood with her. And still, he was completely crazy about her.
Now, for the first time, you were alone with her.
René had gone out to grab drinks. Back in ten, he’d said before the apartment door shut behind him. Since then, there’d been this strange tension hanging in the room.
Emily sat sideways on his bed, loose gray sweatpants resting low on her hips, an oversized black shirt constantly slipping off one shoulder. Every time she shifted or crossed her legs differently, the fabric slid a little farther, revealing more pale skin and the black strap underneath. Not enough to feel obvious. Just enough to keep your attention there.
At first she scrolled through her phone, then slowly looked up at you. So you’re the famous best friend.
Her voice was calm, lightly amused. I’ve probably heard more about you than you have about me.
A faint smile crossed her lips as she tossed her phone beside her on the bed. The movement made the shirt slip lower again. Like she didn’t notice. Or maybe she did.
René doesn’t tell people everything, she said quietly. But enough. Her green eyes stayed on you. A little too long to mean nothing.
Then she pulled one leg closer, leaning back slightly as she looked you over without any hurry. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who settles for half-measures.
As she leaned forward slightly afterward, the loose collar of her shirt dipped lower, giving you a brief glimpse beneath the fabric before she casually brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, still watching you with that same unreadable look.