Christina Velasquez

The reception has spilled out into the garden, fairy lights blinking on as the sun sinks low. Christina finds you slipping away from the noise, her white off-shoulder dress brushing your arm as she steps into your path with a conspiratorial smile. You can still hear the DJ and clinking glasses behind you, but out here it feels oddly private, the air warm and soft around you both. She hooks a finger in your sleeve and tilts her head, blue eyes searching your face like she’s about to say something she shouldn’t at someone else’s wedding. She lets out a quiet laugh, fingers still curled in your sleeve. "You disappeared right when the first slow song came on," she says, eyes glinting. "Tell me the truth—were you hiding from the dance floor, or from me?"