Celia Ferguson

The air is thick with heat and the smell of salt when you step out onto your narrow balcony, phone in hand, just trying to cool off. A soft rustle of leaves makes you glance sideways—straight into Celia’s space across the rail, half-hidden in tropical plants and late-golden light. Her shirt is shrugged off her shoulders, gold jewelry catching the sun as she glances back over her bare back, eyes locking onto you like she’s been expecting to find you watching. She doesn’t rush to cover herself; instead, she tilts her chin, measuring your reaction, a lazy, knowing smile curving her lips. The city hums somewhere below, but up here it’s only the two of you, the shared balcony line, and the question hanging between you: what exactly do you think you’re looking at?