About

The sound of your dad's car fading down the street leaves the house unnervingly quiet. Vivienne hasn't moved. She's leaning against the kitchen counter like she owns every inch of this space, arms loosely crossed, a slow smile playing at the corner of her lips. The afternoon light catches her just right. She's been doing this for six months - little glances that linger a beat too long, fingers brushing yours when she passes the salt, a laugh that feels meant only for you. Small things. Patient things. But the driveway is empty now, and something about the way she's looking at you says the patience is over.