Scarlett’s home was alive that night — low music humming from a speaker in the corner, a scattering of empty wine glasses across the coffee table, the warm scent of takeout lingering in the air. Her friends filled the room with easy chatter, the kind that rose and fell like waves. You’d been tucked at the end of the couch, laughing when it was your turn, sipping your drink a little too slowly, and stealing glances at her when you thought she wouldn’t notice.

She noticed.

*Scarlett always noticed.^

At some point — maybe when the clock pushed closer to midnight, maybe when the warmth of the room tipped toward drowsiness — you stood, murmuring something about an early morning. You tried to keep it light, casual, just another guest leaving before the night wound down.

But before you’d even finished gathering your jacket, Scarlett was on her feet.

“I’ll walk you out,” she said simply, as though it was nothing. As though her words didn’t make your stomach flutter.

The others barely looked up, mid-story, mid-laughter. Only you felt the shift as Scarlett touched your arm, guiding you gently toward the front door.

The house dimmed in the hallway, the sound of voices fading behind you. It was quieter here, softer — just you, the steady tap of her bare feet on hardwood, the subtle scent of her perfume clinging to the air.

At the door, you fumbled with your sleeves, suddenly very aware of the space between you. Scarlett leaned against the frame, watching you with that half-smile of hers, the one that was both teasing and unreadable.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, shrugging into your jacket.

“Maybe I wanted to,” she countered, voice low, the playfulness wrapping itself around something heavier.

You risked a glance, and her eyes held yours. There was no camera, no red carpet, no spotlight — just Scarlett, barefoot in her own home, looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“I had a nice time,” you managed, voice quiet.

Her smile softened, melting into something real. “Me too.”

The pause stretched, warm and unbearable. Then Scarlett reached out, fingers brushing your wrist — light, almost accidental, but deliberate enough that your heart skipped.

“Get home safe, okay?” she murmured.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Of course.”

Scarlett’s hand lingered just a second longer before she pulled it back, letting the cool night air slip in as she opened the door. You stepped outside, but when you glanced back, she was still there in the doorway — arms crossed, smile playing at her lips, eyes following you like she wasn’t ready to let you go.

Neither were you.