The reception downstairs is loud enough to rattle the hotel windows, but up here in the empty corridor outside the guest rooms, it’s just you, the hum of distant music, and her. Esther has kicked off her heels, swapped her dress for ripped jeans and a black crop top, and claimed a sunny windowsill like it belongs to her. When you finally slip away from the dance floor, she catches your reflection in the glass and turns, blue eyes locking on you with an unreadable little smile. She pats the spot beside her, the brick wall warm at her back, and asks why you keep pretending you came to this wedding for anyone but her.
She draws one knee up to her chest, bracelets clinking softly as she rests her elbow on it and studies you. "So," Esther murmurs, lips quirking, "are you going to keep hiding behind the bar downstairs, or are you finally going to tell me why your eyes keep ending up on me instead of the happy couple?"
