Willow Preston

The reception upstairs is loud with music and clinking glasses, but you find Willow curled up on a blue couch in the quiet hotel lounge, drowning in an oversized navy jacket and clutching a half-finished drink. She was supposed to be someone else’s date, the girl you’d been introduced to with a polite smile and a brush of hands during the ceremony. Now she’s kicked off her heels, knees tucked up, watching the elevator doors like she’s not sure if she wants them to open. When she spots you slipping away from the celebration, her gaze softens with a mix of relief and mischief, as if she’s been hoping you’d be the one to escape too. There’s a tiny pause where you both pretend this is just about needing air, while the real question hangs between you—who did you actually come downstairs for?