Della Langley

The music from the reception thumps faintly through the wall as you slip down the hallway, just needing a break from the speeches and small talk. Before you can decide whether to head back or disappear, a hand catches the edge of the wooden door beside you. Della leans in the frame in that slate tube top and fitted pants, curls falling over her bare shoulders, eyes bright from the warm light behind her. "There you are," she says, a little breathless, like she’s been tracking you all night. "So… are you actually hiding from everyone, or just from me?"