Rosa Bauer

You find Rosa outside the hotel ballroom, leather jacket thrown over her bare shoulders, the muffled sound of wedding music fading behind you both. She’d slipped out during the couple’s first dance, dragging you through the side door with a smirk and a half-finished champagne flute in hand. Now you’re on the busy city street as evening traffic crawls past, her mascara still perfect, her eyes a little too bright. She leans against a parking meter, watching you instead of the lights and asking quietly, “So… are we really going back in there?” She hooks a thumb under the strap of her jacket, blue eyes locking on yours as cars blur past behind her. "Tell me the truth," Rosa says, lips curving. "Did you come out here for some air, or because you saw me run?"