Nia
Genevieve The sun was just beginning to rise, casting the ocean in hues of amber and gold. I stood near the deck railing, barefoot, Saint Laurent’s jacket hanging off my shoulders. My body still buzzed from last night—not just the high, not just the s*x—but the peace. The understanding. The promise. He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. “You okay?” “I’m perfect,” I said, and I meant it. We docked not long after, the boat gently rocking as we stepped back onto land. It almost felt like leaving a dream. The air in Willhound felt different—less forgiving, more demanding. Like the world was reminding me that love doesn’t pause life. Back at Saint Laurent’s house, I plugged in my phone and blinked at the screen. Twelve missed calls. Al
- Writer
