Desire

V.

Isabel

My apartment's a disaster, as usual. Canvases stacked haphazardly against the wall, brushes tossed carelessly across the table, pointe shoes half-buried under discarded sketches. I should be used to the mess, but today, it bothers me more than it should. Lea's coming over, and while I'd like to think I don't care what she thinks of my space, I do.

I hate that I do.

I shove some paint tubes into a drawer, clearing a path from the door to the living room. There's barely any room to move in here, much less dance. I push the coffee table aside and glance at the clock. She'll be here soon. Part of me hopes she cancels, but the other part—the quieter, more irritating part—almost wants her to see this. See me in my element. Raw. Unpolished.

Ridiculous.

I head to the shower, letting the hot water scald my skin. It helps clear my head, even if it's only for a moment. I stand there longer than I should, fingers running through my long black hair, which clings to my back in wet strands. When I step out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—fair skin, still flushed from the heat, and hazel eyes that look darker in this light. I tilt my head slightly, watching the way my hair falls over my shoulder, damp and heavy.

I dry off quickly, tugging on the first all-black outfit I can find. A loose, off-the-shoulder sweater that hangs low enough to expose my collarbone, paired with black shorts that fit like a second skin. Simple. Effortless. I let my hair fall naturally, still damp at the tips, not bothering to style it. This is enough.

I glance around the room again, feeling that familiar knot of irritation twist in my stomach. I don't want her here. I don't want to deal with her comments, her looks. Yet, there's a part of me—deep down, buried under layers of indifference—that's... curious. Curious about her.

I push the thought aside as I move the last piece of furniture, making space for the choreography. I'm not looking forward to this. Not the awkwardness, not the tension that seems to settle between us every time we're in the same room. But there's something about her—something I can't quite figure out—that pulls me in. Even if I won't admit it, especially to myself. This was all just work. Just a project we need to get out of the way. None of this means anything.

Right?

There's a knock at the door. I glance at the clock—6 PM, right on the dot. Of course. Lea is almost always on time, as if her entire existence depends on punctuality.

I take a breath and open the door. She stands there, dark brown eyes meeting mine for a split second longer than I expect. Her eyes are darker than usual tonight, almost like they're holding something back, but I'm not going to ask.

I don't care.

Her hair, a cascade of ash brown waves, falls effortlessly down to her mid-lower back, the soft curls catching in the dim light of the hallway. It frames her face, making her medium skin look warmer, more golden, against the knit sweater hanging loosely over her body. The oversized white sweater with a V shaped collar, doesn't hide the slight rising and falling of her chest when she breathes, or the way the fabric gathers just at her hips. And then there are the grey shorts—casual, almost lazy, like she didn't even bother to try tonight. The biggest surprise? Sneakers. She's in black and white sneakers, not her usual heels, which throws me. Lea lives in her heels, like it's part of some act she needs to keep up. But here she is, dressed down in a way I've never seen.

It's almost disarming.

I have to stop myself from looking any longer, tearing my gaze away as if none of it matters.

Because it doesn't.

"Come in," I say, stepping aside. My voice is steady, cold. The way it always is. It's better this way.