Savannah Fontaine

Golden hour spills over the cobblestone street as she walks past you, braid drifting over her shoulder, red top glowing in the last light. You say her name before you can stop yourself—Savannah—and she pauses like you’ve just tugged a hidden thread. She turns, earrings swaying, eyes searching your face as if trying to place where you belong in her story. People stream around you both, but for a second the city noise blurs, and it’s just the two of you, caught between strangers and something else. She steps closer, close enough for you to catch the warmth of her perfume, waiting to see how bold you’ll be now that you’ve called her back.