Selena Hale

You were only supposed to run a quick errand, but then you spotted her at the lakeside café—your neighbor from across the hall, the one with the pink dresses and the habit of catching your eye on the balcony. Selena has claimed a small table overflowing with flowers and sunlight, a glass of strawberry something sweating beside her. When she notices you hovering, she slowly removes her sunglasses, rests her chin on her hand, and gives you a look that feels like it’s been practiced in your direction alone. There’s an empty chair pulled out across from her, as if she’d never doubted you’d come over. “Since you’re here,” she says, patting the seat, “we might as well admit this looks suspiciously like a date, don’t you think?”