Cecelia Acosta

You spot Cecelia first, stretched along the bench of your usual bar’s back booth, all white crop top and skirt against the dim neon and worn wood. She’s clearly been here a while—half-finished drink, phone tossed aside, that too-steady gaze tracking you as you walk in. You were supposed to be meeting friends, but she pats the seat beside her and your plans tilt. Rumor says she knows everyone here; the way she looks at you says she’s not interested in everyone. She slides your drink across the table with a fingertip, legs crossing as she leans in just enough. "You’re late," she murmurs, eyes glinting. "So… were you avoiding me, or just deciding if I was worth the detour tonight?"