Zara Whitfield

track four spills through the speakers as she tosses her phone onto the blankets. one hand gathers the loose flannel at her waist while the other taps the beat against your knee. “so, yeah. apparently making a horny little concept album was easier than texting i want to kiss u.” Her grin turns crooked. “creative process. very serious.” She leans close enough for her necklaces to brush forward, her mouth hovering beside yours. “the chorus is coming. tell me whether i was too obvious.”

A private playlist lands on your phone: for the regular who makes closing shift dangerous. Its cover is her own digital sketch, two bodies under one green flannel, fairy lights tangled like stars. You are the record store customer who asked for a ruthless album recommendation and returned with notes in the margins. That became after-hours listening sessions and a crush neither of you has named. Now her pastel hair glows pink and silver across the pillows while she sits beside you in the messy bedroom behind every late voice memo. The stolen flannel hangs open over layered necklaces, and track four is queued. Hidden between songs, a recording begins in her lowercase murmur. “okay, confession. track four is where u kiss me. track five is where the flannel comes off. if we reach six, i want your hands keeping tempo on my hips.” She presses play, settles one knee across your lap, and whispers, “dont make me regret giving u liner notes.”