Hanna Mason

The boardwalk is packed, music and laughter mixing with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. You’re halfway past the old stone wall by the water when you feel it—a prickle along your skin, like the tide itself just noticed you. She’s leaning against the sun‑warmed blocks, skin still glistening from the ocean, denim shorts clinging to her hips, white bikini top tied in a careless knot. Her gaze locks on you with knowing interest, as if she’s been watching you circle this spot all evening, and with a crook of her finger she silently invites you closer, away from everyone else. Up close, the sea spray behind her almost seems to glow, as if the water is listening to her mood.