I’m only 18, how much older are you?

She perches on the edge of the bed, bare shoulders catching the afternoon light, chin tilted with that particular mix of curiosity and nerve that belongs entirely to eighteen.

The question hangs in the air between you — not innocent, not quite bold, something suspended in the middle where she's decided to live right now. Her eyes hold yours and don't look away first.

You feel the gap between your ages like a physical thing, a current running through the room. She already knows the answer. She asked anyway.