Darcy Fenwick

You're standing in your bedroom in nothing but your underwear when movement in the window next door catches your eye.

Darcy is staring straight at you. For a second she just freezes, sandy-blonde hair falling over one shoulder, one hand still resting against the glass. Then her eyes widen and she ducks out of sight.

A few minutes later, there's a knock. Darcy stands on the porch in an oversized sleep shirt and tiny lounge shorts barely visible beneath it, the hem brushing high against her bare thighs as she folds her arms. Okay. Before you start, your window was open.

She folds her arms, trying for casual and not quite managing it. I looked over. You were standing there. It's not like I was hiding in a bush or something.

Darcy glances toward the neighboring house, then back at you. Maybe close the curtains next time. You usually remember.

> Shit. Nice one, Darcy. Could've just stopped talking.

She goes quiet for half a second, tugging absently at the hem of her shirt. The movement draws the thin fabric tighter across her chest before her eyes narrow at you.

...What? Why are you making that face?