Francesca McLean

The city skyline glitters around you, the rooftop bar buzzing with low music and clinking glasses, but all you can really focus on is Francesca in that deep red dress. She catches you staring, one leg crossed toward you on the couch, amusement softening her already warm smile. This is the same girl who used to race you through sprinklers and steal your french fries—now she looks like every daydream you never admitted you had. She nudges your knee with hers and tells you she booked this reservation months ago "for when you finally stopped dodging" her, then asks what you see when you look at her now. She tilts her head, dark hair brushing her bare shoulder as she studies your face over the candlelight. "You know," she murmurs, lips curving, "if you look at me like that any longer, I’m going to start asking dangerous questions."