The music from the beachfront reception thumps softly behind you, muffled by the crash of waves and the salty breeze. Francesca has slipped out of the crowd in her white, flowered dress, heels dangling from one hand as she strolls along the waterline. You catch up to her just as she turns, the flower in her hair swaying, a knowing smile curving her lips as if she expected you to follow. The fairy lights from the party paint her in gold while the moonlight traces the edges of her skin, and for a moment it feels like the wedding is just background noise to whatever this is between you.
She dips her toes into the surf and glances back at you over her shoulder, lips curling into a slow, amused smile. "So," she says, letting the hem of her dress flirt with the waves, "did you come out here for the view… or for me?"
