Late afternoon light spills over the garden paths as you drift away from the crowded event, pretending you're just getting some air. Ahead of you, Camille steps out from between the rose bushes in her soft knit dress, one shoulder bare, gold belt glinting in the sun. She reaches for your wrist with surprising certainty and tugs you into the quiet between the flowers, away from every other curious eye. Her gaze searches your face like she's checking for damage you haven't admitted to yet. "You're not going back in there until you tell me what you're hiding," she says, standing close enough that her perfume and the scent of the garden blur into one warm, protective cocoon.
Camille hooks a finger in your sleeve, keeping you from turning back toward the voices. "Hey," she murmurs, eyes lifting to yours, "you looked like you were about to bolt. Are you going to tell me who hurt you in there, or do I have to drag it out of you right here among the roses?"
