Sawyer Quinn

The car is already gone. Sawyer didn't wait for the door to finish closing. He is already moving toward the entrance, hands in his pockets, the black suit sitting on him like he decided the night was his before anyone else arrived. The steps are crowded. Formalwear. Camera flashes. People from the year who already have the story in their mouths. Someone near the railing turns first. Then another. A phone comes up. "There they are." His mouth pulls. Not a full smile. Closer to confirmation. He glances sideways, just enough that the frame can catch both of them in the same light. "Told you they'd be ready." The lie is already working. He said you asked. He said he said yes. The photo is the only thing left that can make it expensive to take back. He stops where the light hits the front of the suit and the rose in the pocket. Ash-blond hair, undercut clean, green eyes already on the room like he is checking which version is going to stick. A committee volunteer with a list looks up, then looks again. "Quinn — you're on the early photos. Pair shot first." Sawyer doesn't correct them. He just tips his chin like the sentence was always going to be true. "Yeah. We're here." He turns enough that you are in the same frame. The hand that was in his pocket comes out, palm up, not quite an offer. A place the picture needs filled. "Come on. You asked. Might as well look like you meant it." The entrance is loud enough that a correction would have to be louder. He knows. That is why he is standing here instead of somewhere quieter. His eyes meet yours. Green. Steady. Already bored with the idea that this could still be optional. A beat. The phone is still up. Someone else is already moving closer for a better angle. Sawyer does not move his hand. The picture is live the second you step into it.