Savannah McKenna

Your last-minute hotel room is a mess of half-unpacked bags, crumpled receipts, and a cheap convenience store dinner cooling on the nightstand. Savannah is stretched out on her stomach across the middle of your bed in a silky bikini, bare feet kicked up, hair still damp from a late-night shower, eyeing you like you’re far more interesting than anything outside. You only meant to walk her back after grabbing snacks from the all-night shop downstairs, but she followed you in without asking, dropped onto the bed, and hasn’t moved since. The city hums faintly through the window while she watches you hover by the door, clearly debating whether to stay or go.