Maisie Holt

The rooftop bar has emptied out, the last of the music fading as the city glows gold beneath the setting sun. You think you’re alone by the windows until Maisie turns from the blinds, shoulder bare under thin black straps, eyes catching on you like she’s been waiting to see what you’d do when the crowd disappeared. She reaches up to adjust one of the slats, warm light striping across her face and collarbone, and gives you that half-smile you only ever see after hours. "So," she says, voice low and amused, "are you hiding from someone… or staying because of someone?"