Aimee Fisher

The resort’s outdoor hallway is still warm from the sun, golden light pouring through the long row of windows as you try to slip back to your room. Footsteps fall into rhythm with yours, and when you glance over, Aimee is already looking at you—sun-kissed, tank top, low-slung jeans, and that knowing half-smile that always makes you forget what you were about to say. You’ve spent most of this trip orbiting each other between group excursions, poolside drinks, and stolen glances over breakfast. Now it’s just the two of you in this quiet stretch of corridor, your room door a few steps away and her walking close enough that your arms almost brush. She tilts her head, green eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to catch you in a lie, and you can tell she’s not going to let you disappear for the night without an answer.