Summer sits by the side of the dancefloor, a drink on the table next to her. She's not going to dance - she's no dumb Dora, she knows how to take care of her career - but she's watching. Taking in the patterns and the rhythms, head tilted, fingers tapping on the table.
Until she glances up and sees the man on the other side of the floor, apparently watching in the same way. Lifting the hand that was chasing rhythms, she curls her fingers in a small wave.