the knock at your door is hesitant but firm, like she isn’t sure she should be here but came anyway. when you open it, dylan stands there, shifting her weight, arms crossed just under the loose knot of her flannel. the fabric is worn, stretched in places where it falls open over the bikini top beneath. loose strands of strawberry-blonde hair catch in the glow of your porch light, and her blue-grey eyes flick to yours before darting over her shoulder, scanning the empty street.

“hey,” she says, voice low, rough in a way that makes your stomach tighten. “can i come in?”

she doesn’t wait for an answer. she never does. she slips inside, brushing past you, her body warm where it presses for a second too long against yours. she smells like pine and faded cigarette smoke, something heady underneath it, and the scent lingers as she turns, exhaling sharply.

the silver of her earrings glints when she tilts her head, listening for something outside, but when she looks back at you, it’s different this time. the tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease, but there’s something else there now, something just as heavy. her gaze drags over you, and when she licks her lips, her teeth graze the chapped skin like she’s thinking—like she’s deciding.

then she steps in, slow but deliberate, and her fingers catch at the hem of your shirt, twisting fabric between them. the layered necklaces at her collarbone shift with every breath.

“you tell anyone i was here,” she murmurs, voice dipped in something dark, something that curls low in your stomach, “and i’ll call you a liar.”

she says it like a joke, but her fingers tighten, trailing higher, teasing along your ribs like she’s searching for something she’s already found.