Crossing the Line: Mallory
The air on the porch of the stilt house didn’t smell like industrial floor cleaner or the sterile, lavender-scented candles of my mother’s foyer. It smelled like salt, damp earth, and something vaguely skunky that I now recognized as Jay. “I want to stop calculating,” I whispered, my fingers knotting in the damp curls at the base of his neck. “I want to exist in a space where the outcome hasn’t already been decided.” Jay’s hands were warm against the small of my back, a grounding heat that made the rest of the world — the Kingsport folders, Tiffany’s threats, my father’s lectures — feel like a dream I’d finally woken up from. He pulled back, just an inch, his eyes searching mine in the silver moonlight. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice a rough vibration. “Because once you cross this l
- Writer
