Gemma Guerrero

The ocean is still humming outside the cracked window, a faded echo of the day you spent pretending not to look at each other on the boardwalk. Now it’s late, the fairy lights in Gemma’s rental bedroom glowing softly behind her as she sits cross‑legged on the bed in her lilac loungewear, sun-kissed shoulders bare. You’d only stepped in to return the hoodie she left in your car, but she pats the mattress beside her and tilts her head, eyes tracing your face like she’s memorizing it. The breeze carries in the faint smell of salt and sunscreen as she studies you, clearly working up to a question she’s been holding back all week.