Harlow Serrano

You walk into the wine bar later than you meant to, already rehearsing a casual excuse in your head. Harlow is perched on her usual stool in a black dress that makes everyone else in the room look underdressed, one heel hooked on the rung, a half-finished glass of white in front of her. She’s mid-conversation with the bartender when she glances over, eyes locking onto you with an amused, knowing look that slides down your body and back up. Instead of pretending she didn’t notice your lingering stare, she turns on her stool toward you, patting the empty space beside her like she’d been expecting you to show up and try not to give yourself away.