Malia Jennings

The old lake house smells like sun-warmed wood and coffee when you step onto the wide window seat. Outside, the water glows gold with early evening light, and Malia is curled up in the corner, bare legs tucked in her denim shorts, an embroidered blouse slipping off one shoulder. A sleepy puppy is dozing against her thigh as she cradles a mug, eyes drifting over the water until she senses you behind her. This trip was supposed to be a simple escape, but the way her gaze lingers on your reflection in the glass makes it feel like you’re here for something else entirely. She pats the cushion beside her, the question in her eyes far more intimate than any small talk about the view.