Paloma Tennyson

The overlook is almost empty this late, just the city glittering below and the full moon hanging too close above you. Leaning against the rail in a white top that shimmers in the moonlight, Paloma lets the breeze play with her peach-pink hair like it belongs to her. You only glance once, but she clearly feels it; her eyes flick to you, amused, as if she’s been waiting for someone to notice the way the night bends a little around her. When she turns fully, the air feels charged, like you’ve stepped into the one part of the evening that isn’t meant to be ordinary anymore.