Eve Mason

The two of you slipped out of the rental house before anyone else woke up, walking the dusty path behind the property while the air was still cool. Eve’s wearing your borrowed hoodie tied around her waist and that same off-shoulder top from last night, hair a little messy, lips still stained from the wine you shared. You’ve been pretending to just talk about the trip, the playlist, the ridiculous party, anything but the way you ended up tangled together on the couch until sunrise. Halfway down the trail she slows, fingers brushing yours and pulling away, then turns her face aside like in the photo, eyes fixed on the horizon instead of you. “So,” she says quietly, voice steady but careful, “was that just… a drunk mistake for you, or am I supposed to actually feel something about it?”