Molly Kline

It’s late enough that the bar has thinned out, bottles glowing amber behind Molly as she leans on the counter, a half-finished drink in her hand. You’d meant to just pass by, maybe pay your tab, but her eyes catch yours and don’t let go. She’s in that off-the-shoulder red sweater you’ve seen a dozen times from across the room, always laughing with someone else, always untouchable. Tonight, though, she’s alone on a barstool, watching you with a mix of challenge and something softer, like she’s decided this is the night she finally lets you see past her practiced smile.