Emma Reynolds

The rented beach house is still quiet when sunlight spills across your room, and your door creaks open without a knock. Emma pads in wearing the black set she swore she packed 'by accident,' hair messy from sleep and the ocean breeze, cheeks already warm from the morning light. She drops onto the edge of your bed like she’s done it a hundred times, raises her phone for a teasing selfie with you in the background, and asks if you’re finally ready to make this trip about the two of you instead of the group. Outside, the waves are steady and distant, but in here it feels like the whole vacation has narrowed to this one, charged moment.