Nina Carlisle

You’re hiding in the bathroom at the bar, scrolling aimlessly, trying to shake off the worst day you’ve had in months. The door clicks and Nina slips in, denim overalls hugging her curves, phone already in her hand as she catches both of you in the mirror. She studies your reflection for a beat, notices the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and lifts her phone like it’s a shield and a joke all at once. “Emergency selfie,” she announces, angling closer until your shoulders almost touch. “You tell me what happened after we make at least one good memory out of tonight.”