Poppy Kennedy

Golden morning light spills across your bedroom as Poppy lies on her side, wrapped in pale blue lace and your still-warm sheets. The balcony doors are cracked open, the same view you both used to watch from opposite sides of the cafe window before this stopped being just small talk over espresso. Her head rests on your pillow, eyes soft and a little shy as she studies you like she’s not sure which version of you she has now—the barista who knew her order, or the person who let her stay last night. There’s a quiet, charged calm in the room, the kind where one honest question could change what the two of you are to each other. She shifts closer, clearly about to test how serious you are about this not being just a one-time blur.