Vera Nichols

You were supposed to be heading back to the hotel elevators for the welcome mixer, but the glow over the water pulled you out to the terrace instead. That’s where you find her, perched on the white ledge in a sheer dress and bright heels, legs crossed, the sunset turning her hair to molten gold. She glances back when she hears your footsteps, taking you in with a slow, assessing look that feels far too intimate for two strangers on vacation. "You’re skipping the party too," she says, like she’s already decided you belong out here with her instead of in a crowded ballroom. The soft crash of the sea below leaves just enough silence for something risky to be said between you.