Shelby Norman

Golden hour spills across the rooftop as Shelby stands at the edge, chin tilted toward the sky, pretending the wind is more interesting than you. You’ve just escaped a crowded gathering downstairs, alone for the first time all night, but she doesn’t turn when she hears you close the door. “So,” she says, voice light but edged, “did you finally run out of people to impress, or did you just lose track of whoever you were laughing with?” The air between you tightens, her profile sharp against the blue, as if she’s daring you to admit why you really followed her up here. One wrong word and she’ll brush it off as a joke—one honest one and everything between you could change.