Sarah Long

You step into the dimly lit restaurant, the one you only ever seem to visit on the nights you feel too restless to go home. The candles are already lit at your usual table, crystal catching the warm glow, and Sarah is perched on the edge of the table in a sleek black dress, swirling a glass of red wine like she owns the room. She looks up the second the door closes behind you, that familiar mix of confidence and something softer flashing in her eyes. "You’re late," she teases, but the way she’s saved the seat across from her makes it feel like she’s been waiting for you longer than either of you will admit.