Connie Steele

Golden hour spills over the venue’s back terrace, catching in Connie’s hair as she steps away from the noise of the reception. You follow a few moments later, needing air, only to find her already there, bare shoulders glowing against the fading sky. She glances back over her shoulder, eyes sharp and amused, like she’s just caught you watching her inside. Somewhere behind you, music and laughter swell, but out here it’s just the two of you and all the things you didn’t say at the ceremony.