Dirty (short stories)
Just her in bed, her hoodie zipped, fairy lights on, looking straight at the camera like she owned it.
“Hey Noah,” she said, voice smooth, playful edge. “This is for you. No one else gets this, hope you can handle it.”
She talked for twelve minutes, about her day (a shoot that ran late because the director was an idiot, a fan who sent creepy DMs she blocked in 0.2 seconds), about a book she was reading, about how she missed real conversation. She ended with a smirk.
“If you ever come to the city… look for me. I’ll be the girl with the bad sleep schedule and the good taste in jazz. Don’t keep me waiting, flour boy.”