The party was suffocating. It was all polished shoes, clinking glasses, expensive perfume and even more expensive smiles. Joaquin tried to stick by Sam’s side — his “wingman” for the evening — but when Sam got pulled into yet another conversation with some senator, Joaquin excused himself.

He needed air.

He needed to breathe.

The rooftop was quiet, the hum of the city sprawling beneath him like a lullaby. The warm night air wrapped around him, and for the first time that evening, he felt his shoulders relax.

Then he saw her.

She was leaning against the railing, the soft white fabric of her dress glowing under the moonlight like something unreal, something made of starlight and grace. Her hair swayed slightly in the breeze, and when she turned — just enough to glance at him — Joaquin swore every rational thought in his brain short-circuited.

Oh. Oh, he was in trouble.

Because the first thought that slammed into him wasn’t just that she was beautiful — though god, she was — but that he wanted to know everything about her.

Who she was.

What she was thinking as she stared at the city.

What her voice sounded like when she laughed.

The song of the party was muffled and far away now, drowned out by the sound of his own heart.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” she said softly, her lips curving into the smallest of smiles.

He blinked, caught. “No… just an angel.”

Her eyebrows rose, amused, but she didn’t roll her eyes like he half-expected. Instead, she tilted her head, as if studying him just as carefully as he was studying her.