WHO: @dearestdarkling WHERE: supernatural conclave & gala.
Romy had been loitering near the bar like a socially anxious gargoyle for what felt like hours, clutching her champagne flute like it doubled as a security pass. Her heels were already plotting mutiny, and the crab puffs had started to taste like existential despair. She was half a sip away from pretending to text no one when someone slid into the space beside her, effortless and elegant in that I didn’t trip even once tonight kind of way. Romy’s eyes flicked sideways, taking her in —beautiful dress, cooler expression. One of those people who looked like she belonged here, unlike Romy, who still felt like a decently dressed monkey trying not to touch anything breakable.
She cleared her throat. “So, honest question,” she said, offering a sidelong smile and raising her glass, “—are we drinking because this feels like a murder mystery party and we’re just waiting for someone to scream? Or are you one of those terrifyingly composed people who actually likes these things?” A pause, then, sheepishly: “Sorry. I’ve hit my quota for staring at art that looks like trauma turned into expensive furniture. I needed someone with a pulse to talk to.”
