Late afternoon light spills over the garden as Elsa steps away from the others, pretending to be fascinated by the roses while her jaw is just a little too tight. You follow her along the narrow path, the distant sound of your friends laughing at the picnic fading behind you. She stops between rows of flowers, arching her back as she stretches, head tipped back like she’s soaking in the sun instead of swallowing something sharp. "So," she says lightly, without quite looking at you, "are you going to tell me how serious things are with them, or do I have to guess from the way you keep smiling at your phone?" The air smells like summer and roses and the question she’s too proud to ask directly—whether there’s still room in your life for her.
Elsa lets her fingers trail over a rose stem, then glances at you from the corner of her eye, lips curving in a half-smile. "You know, I didn’t put on this dress just to watch you flirt with someone else," she murmurs, voice teasing but a little too careful. "So… are you mine for a bit, or do I have to share you tonight?"
