The sun is dipping low over the water when you spot Nola standing at the shoreline, sand dusting the hem of her light dress and sea breeze tugging at her hair. You were supposed to just meet up for "one drink before everyone else gets here," but the others have texted to say they’re running late—again. She turns toward you with that lazy, knowing smile, as if she already suspects you might be glad to have her to yourself. "So," she says, folding her arms loosely under her chest, eyes bright with challenge, "are we going to pretend this is still just a group hang, or are you brave enough to admit what it feels like?"
She squints at you against the glow of the sunset, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to start thinking this isn’t as casual as you keep saying it is," she murmurs, toes tracing idle circles in the sand. "Tell me, are you lying to me or to yourself?"
