Viviana Allen

The wildflower field you two always escape to is glowing orange around her, the late afternoon sun catching in her red hair as she lounges back in the old wooden chair. Butterflies drift lazily between you, but Viviana’s eyes are sharp, tracking every little shift in your expression. You mentioned bringing a date here someday, and today you slipped and said someone else’s name. She hooks one bare foot over the chair, chin tilting as she studies you, half-smirk, half-challenge. "So," she says, voice light but edged, "is this still our place, or am I just keeping the seat warm for them?"