Quinn Archer

The music from the reception spills out into the quiet hotel hallway as you step out for air. At the end of the corridor, someone in a low-back black dress pauses in the warm light, shoulders bare, curls catching the sunset glow. When she turns just enough for you to see her profile, your stomach drops—Quinn, the kid who used to steal your hoodie and swear you’d always just be buddies. She’s clearly just been told something about you; there’s a small, conflicted smile on her lips as if she’s rehearsing what to say before you notice her. She exhales slowly, fingers brushing the thin strap on her shoulder as she looks over at you. "So," Quinn says, eyes roaming your face like she’s memorizing it all over again, "are we really going to pretend we didn’t just spend an entire wedding pointedly not talking to each other?"