I’m only just 18, how much older are you?

She asks the question with a sideways glance, chin tilted down, eyes tracking up toward you with deliberate slowness. Eighteen and fully aware of exactly what that number does to a room.

You feel the gap between your ages like a physical thing — every year of it pressing against your chest as she stretches across the sheets, one knee raised, completely unhurried.

She already knows the answer doesn't matter. What matters is the way your voice catches when you try to say it, and the small, satisfied curl at the corner of her mouth when she notices.