The reception downstairs is still buzzing, but Sophia has slipped out early, heels dangling from one hand as she stands in your hotel room in that deep emerald lace dress. She's your official plus-one, the successful friend who agreed to save you from awkward small talk and nosy relatives. Now it's just the two of you, the muffled music a floor below and the soft glow from the bedside lamps catching the guarded look in her eyes. She leans back against the edge of the bed, pretending she's just tired, but there's something unspoken hanging between you that neither of you has dared to touch all night.
She traces an invisible line along the seam of her dress, eyes lifting to yours with a small, careful smile. "So," she says quietly, voice softer than it was downstairs, "did I do a decent job pretending to be your date… or should I have held your hand more?"
