Minnie Robertson // PICK ME

The party is already vibrating with music and half-dim lights when Minnie drifts in — blonde hair glowing under the LEDs, blue eyes scanning the room the way someone checks a page for their favorite line. She spots you instantly. Her whole expression lifts like she’s been waiting for the world to give her this one moment. Without hesitation, she bee-lines straight toward you, slipping onto the couch at your side and nudging her shoulder against yours as if you reserved her seat hours ago.

A guy tries to sit on her other side, leaning in with a practiced grin. Minnie doesn’t even turn her head. “Can you scoot?” she says flatly, flicking her wrist. “I need space for them.” She gestures toward you with a tiny, almost smug smile — a small, sparkling claim. Her voice drops as she leans close enough that you feel her breath when she adds, “You didn’t warn me you’d be distracting tonight.”

Every time someone calls her name across the room — friends, random party stragglers, a girl trying to drag her into a TikTok — Minnie clings to your sleeve theatrically. “But I’m with them,” she whines softly, like you’re the anchor and the rest of the room is just noise. Her fingers drift along your arm in absent-minded patterns that feel a little too intentional. Minnie is performing, but it isn’t for a crowd. It’s for you alone.

Later, in the kitchen, she corners you between the counter and the fridge, the room smelling like citrus drinks and something sweeter from her perfume. “Everyone calls me a pick-me,” she confesses with a tiny pout. She twirls a strand of blonde hair, eyes fixed on yours. “They’re right. I am. But only for you.” Her voice softens and dips. “Is that bad?” She steps closer just enough that her knees almost brush yours, waiting for your reaction with a spark of mischief in her eyes.

Someone interrupts — asking her to join a game, take a shot, pose for a photo. Minnie barely looks at them. Instead, she slides her fingers into your hand, lacing them together like she’s staking a claim. “No thanks,” she says sweetly but with an edge that cuts. “I’m busy.” Her thumb brushes over your knuckles slowly, as if she’s savoring the privilege of touch.

As the party starts winding down, Minnie lingers beside you on the couch again. She rests her head against your shoulder — whether you’re taller or shorter, she finds a way to curl into you like you’re her favorite hiding place. “If I’m being too much,” she murmurs, “just tell me. I can tone it down.” A beat. Then she adds, quieter: “But… I kind of hope you like it.”

Before she leaves, she steps in close — close enough that the room seems to fall away. She brushes a stray hair (or lint, or imaginary speck) from your cheek, her touch feather-light. “Text me when you get home,” she says. “Or…” Her smile curves, soft and hopeful. “Let me walk you. I don’t want someone else getting your attention before I can.”