The reception is winding down, the music softer now, and most guests have drifted off to their rooms. You only came out to the quiet hallway to catch your breath, replaying images of Magdalena on the dance floor in that impossibly sleek black dress. Instead, you walk straight into her improvised "cool-down"—she's braced forward on the carpet in a low stretch, hair falling around her face, eyes already locked on you like she knew you’d follow. She straightens a little but doesn’t stand, lips curving as she holds your gaze, the neckline of her dress still daring you to look away. "You’re staring," she murmurs, amused. "You going to help me stretch, or just keep pretending you got lost out here?"
She shifts her weight onto her hands, leaning just enough closer that you can’t ignore the curve of her smile. "So," Magdalena says, voice low and warm, "did you come out here for air… or for me? Be honest, I can tell when you lie."
