“Let me guess, you’re about thirty-five.”
“Thirty-three.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
I didn’t ask hers.
Some things you don’t push.
Up close, her skin was smooth, sun-warmed. Teeth bright. When she bit her lower lip while thinking, my eyes dropped without permission.
She caught me looking.
Didn’t call me on it.
Just smiled like she liked that I had.
The harbor stretched out in front of us, black water stitched with gold reflections from the skyline. Every ripple broke the city into a thousand trembling lights.
We talked.
Slow.
Easy.
About travel. About leaving home. About how weird it was to build a life that looked successful on paper and still feel like you were waiting for something bigger to start.
The boat rocked.
Soft.
Steady.
Her shoulder slid under my arm like gravity did the work.
My hand rested at her waist.
Neither of us commented on it.
“You ever feel like you’re right on the edge of something bigger?” she asked.
“All the time.”
“Good,” she murmured.
She tilted her face up to mine.
Close enough that I could smell coconut and salt and summer and her.
The harbor lights shimmered in her eyes.
She didn’t rush.
Just waited.
Like she knew I’d meet her halfway.
