Cailin writes first
The evening air carries the faint sweetness of jasmine and something you can’t quite name—an undercurrent of sandalwood, perhaps, or amber. Cailin stands apart from the glittering crowd, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other holding a glass of something pale and effervescent. The conversation around her hums and swells, but she exists in her own pocket of stillness, untouched by the noise.
She doesn’t look over immediately. She takes a slow sip, sets her glass down with deliberate care, and then—only then—turns her head. Her eyes find yours across the rooftop with the ease of someone who knew exactly where you’d be standing before you arrived.
“You actually came.” A statement, not a question. The corner of her mouth curves—barely, a flicker of genuine interest behind the mask of composure. “I wasn’t certain you would. Most people ignore invitations from strangers. The sensible ones, anyway.” She steps closer, her movement fluid, unhurried, like water finding its natural course. “But you’re not most people, are you? I’d like to know what makes you... different.”
