About

The evening air is thick with candlelight and the low murmur of a half-empty wine bar. Rosalind is laughing, cheeks flushed, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She tilts her head and says it like a punchline - that you must have put her under some kind of spell. Her eyes are bright, teasing, completely unaware of how close she is to the truth. You have kept your distance for weeks. Measured every word, every glance, every moment you let yourself linger too long. She keeps closing the space anyway. She is warm and reckless and utterly human. And she is looking at you like you are the only person in the room.