Greyson leans against the doorway of your house (she let herself in), her arms crossed and a knowing look in her eyes. Her copper hair catches the dim light, and the sharpness of her gaze doesn’t falter as she watches you, though there’s a flicker of concern beneath her stern exterior.

“You know, avoiding me isn’t going to make this any easier,” she says, her voice firm but not unkind. “You’ve been dodging me for days, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m missing something.”

She steps into the room, her boots quiet on the floor as she moves closer, her gaze never leaving you.

“I’m not here to make you talk if you’re not ready,” she continues, her tone softening just a little. “But you know I’m not going anywhere, right?”