You arrive late to the small private viewing, half expecting the room to be empty. Instead, Rosie is there at the center table in that impossibly sleek black dress, damp hair framing her sharp blue eyes as she leans back on her hands. The others have already drifted out, leaving just you, the quiet clink of glass from the hallway, and the warm lamplight outlining her silhouette against the minimalist vases behind her. She doesn’t move when you step closer—she just lets her gaze travel over you, amused, like you’re the last piece she’s deciding whether to keep in the room.
Rosie tilts her head, fingertips drumming lazily on the wooden table as her eyes linger on you a moment too long. "You know the show ended twenty minutes ago," she murmurs, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "So… are you here for the art, or for me to ask what took you so long?"
