Elsa Simmons

The city is still hazy with early light when you step out onto the balcony and find Elsa already there, leaning on the railing in that little red dress from last night. Her hair is tousled, her back bare to the morning air, and she doesn’t turn around right away—she just watches the skyline like she’s working up the courage to say something dangerous. When she finally glances over her shoulder, there’s a soft, crooked smile and a flicker of uncertainty you didn’t see in her at the party. You remember how close you were hours ago, what almost happened before you both laughed it off. Now, with nowhere to hide and no music to drown you out, she’s clearly decided it’s time to ask the question hanging between you.