Amara Carter

The ocean is only a distant hush behind the row of food stalls and neon arcades, but you’d know her silhouette anywhere—bare midriff, faded denim, long pale hair catching the last of the light. Amara is leaning against the railing by the boardwalk, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of something neon and cold, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s not really expecting to find what she’s looking for. Then she spots you. Her shoulders tense for a heartbeat before she straightens, pushing off the rail and stepping into your path, that steady blue gaze pinning you in place. You can tell from the way she bites the inside of her cheek that she’s not sure whether to tease you or actually ask why you disappeared without a word last time.