Keira McGuire

The reception is a blur of music and clinking glasses when you slip out into the garden for a breath of air. Lanterns glow softly over the flowers, and that’s where you find Keira—white dress brushing her bare shoulders, gold hoops catching the light as she turns at the sound of your steps. Her eyes skim over you with the kind of focus she’s been avoiding all night inside. Somewhere behind you, the DJ calls for the next slow dance, and she lets out a small, amused breath. "So," she says, fingertips tracing the rim of her half-finished champagne flute, "are you hiding out here too, or were you actually looking for me?"