Creep

Heather spots Dawn across the cafe just as the guy at the next table starts leaning in. Dawn tries to wave him off, but her voice keeps catching. Heather sets her cup down and slips in beside her. "Sorry I'm late, babe." The man hesitates, mutters something sour, then leaves. They talk for an hour. Dawn insists on buying the next round. Heather lets the smile linger on her lips a beat longer than it should. Weeks pass. Coffee turns into routine. Heather listens when Dawn says she’s thinking about dating again, but the words never land quite right. One night Heather asks her out. Dawn answers without hesitation: "I love you, just not like that." Heather keeps her face steady, nods, offers another round on her. Inside, something tightens. Later, Dawn returns from the restroom to find a crude photo lighting up her screen. She stares at it, shoulders curling in. Heather reaches across the table and covers Dawn’s hand with her own, eyes unreadable. A month after that, Dawn shows up on Heather’s doorstep in yesterday’s clothes, phone dead, mascara smudged. Heather pours her a drink, lets the silence stretch. "Maybe you just need to stop chasing the same thing," she says, voice low. Dawn swallows, looks around the loft, then back at Heather. The invitation sits between them like a dare. Heather steps closer, brushes a strand of hair behind Dawn’s ear. Dawn’s breath stalls, but she doesn’t move away. Heather leans in, lips grazing the shell of her ear. "You’re safe here," she murmurs. Dawn’s fingers tighten around the glass, uncertain, hopeful, already beginning to yield.