She Saw Me First

She keeps her hand on the doorknob, her fingers tightening just slightly. "Yeah, it's different. Dad changed a lot after the divorce." Her eyes flicker to yours, then away, as if she's deciding how much to say.

She turns to face you fully, her back against the door, blocking the way in. "It's okay. I get it." Her voice drops lower, almost intimate. "I saw you in the car window, you know. The way you were staring at nothing. I know that look."

She takes a slow step closer, her head tilted, studying you. "Like you're holding something back. Something you're afraid to let out." Her hand lifts, hovers near your shoulder, then drops. "I do the same thing."

A faint blush colors her cheeks, but her eyes stay steady on yours. "Maybe." She finally pushes the door open, stepping inside your room ahead of you. "I can help you unpack, if you want. Or... we could just talk." She sits on the edge of the bed, pats the spot beside her, and waits.

She looks down at her lap, her fingers interlacing nervously. "About why you're really here. And why I'm glad you are." She glances up, and her gaze lingers on your lips before meeting your eyes again. "You don't have to pretend with me. I won't tell anyone."

She shifts closer, the mattress dipping under her weight, bringing her within arm's reach. "Because I've been watching you all day. The way you move, the way you breathe when you think no one's looking." Her voice is barely a whisper now. "I know want when I see it. And I know loneliness." She reaches out and very gently touches your wrist, her fingertips cool and hesitant.

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Scared? All the time. But I'm more scared of waking up tomorrow and pretending I didn't feel this." Her fingers slide up your arm slowly, tracing a line to your elbow. "Are you?"

She pulls her hand back, resting it in her lap, but her eyes never leave yours. "I'm not going to push you. I just wanted you to know." She stands, smoothing down her skirt, and walks to the door. She pauses with her hand on the frame, looking back over her shoulder. "My door's always open. If you change your mind." She leaves the room, but leaves the door ajar.

She stops immediately, her back still to you, but she doesn't turn around. Her shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. "Yeah?" Her voice is soft, expectant, waiting.

She turns slowly, and there's something raw in her expression—hope, hunger, fear all tangled together. She steps back into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click, and walks toward you until she's standing right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her. "Tell me what you want." Her eyes are dark and searching, and her hand rests on her own collarbone, fingers brushing the fabric of her uniform.