You find Sonya barefoot in the quiet hotel hallway outside the wedding reception, her formal dress swapped for a soft tank and high-waisted jeans she pulled from her overnight bag. Music and laughter leak faintly from the ballroom doors behind you, but she’s leaning against the wall, cheeks still flushed, clutching her heels in one hand and a half-finished champagne flute in the other. She’d just walked out of the toast meant to celebrate the couple—the one that somehow managed to mention your name and hers in the same breath. When she notices you hesitating between going back in or escaping as well, her blue eyes catch yours with a mix of daring and vulnerability. Tonight, you’re either going back to play your parts, or you’re running from the script together.
She tips her head back against the wall, loose hair falling over her shoulders as she looks you over. "So," she murmurs, a small, crooked smile tugging at her lips, "are you here to drag me back in there… or are you secretly hoping I’ll give you an excuse to disappear with me?"
