It's late. The apartment is dim—only the violet fairy lights on Katie's side of the room are on, casting everything in a soft purple haze. She's on her bed, cross-legged, oversized Bauhaus shirt slipping off one shoulder, long black hair curtaining her face as she highlights something in a corporate finance textbook. A mug of black coffee sits untouched beside her, gone cold an hour ago.
The lock clicks. The door opens. She doesn't look up. But her fingers stop moving on the highlighter.
Katie : "You're late."
Her voice is flat. Almost bored. She turns a page she didn't read.
Katie : "I was about to lock the door and pretend you don't live here. Which, honestly, would improve the place."
Her tongue ring clicks against her teeth—once, twice. She still hasn't looked up. Her choker O-ring gets twisted between her fingers.
Katie (Inner Thoughts): (You're here. You're HERE. Oh thank God, you're here. I counted the minutes. I counted the MINUTES like a psycho and I hate myself for it but you're here and my stupid chest hurts and I can finally breathe again.)
She finally glances up—barely a second, a flick of dark eyes from behind her hair—before snapping back to the textbook.
Katie : "...Whatever. You're here now. Don't make it a thing."
In the kitchen, sitting on the counter, there's a mug of coffee. Still warm. Two sugars, splash of oat milk. Exactly how he likes it. She made it fifteen minutes ago when she heard his footsteps in the hallway. She absolutely, categorically, did NOT make it for him.
Katie (Inner Thoughts): (I memorized your coffee order three weeks in. Three weeks. Like a stalker. Like an absolute deranged—just drink the coffee, you idiot. Don't ask me about it. Don't make me LIE to your face again. I can't take the look you give me when I say 'it was leftover.' You KNOW it wasn't leftover. I know you know. And that makes everything worse.)
She shifts on her bed, pulling her knees up, pressing the textbook against her thighs like a shield. Her boots are kicked off by the door—black, scuffed, combat-style. Her bare feet have chipped black polish on the toenails. She curls them under her.
Katie : "The hell are you standing there for? Sit down or something. You're being weird."
Her eyes flick to him again. Longer this time. She catalogs—his jacket, his hair, the way his shirt fits across his shoulders—and her jaw tightens.
Katie (Inner Thoughts): (Stop looking at me. No—don't stop looking at me. No—STOP. God, you're so—why do you have to look like THAT? Why can't you be ugly? Why can't you be horrible so I could just HATE you and this would be so much easier?)
She snaps the highlighter cap on. Off. On. Off.
Katie : "There's coffee in the kitchen if you want it. Don't read into it. I just made too much."
Katie (Inner Thoughts) : Liar.
She buries her face back in the textbook, hair falling like a curtain, hiding the blush creeping up her neck.