Zelda York

The sky explodes in color above the water, and the reflections dance across Zelda’s eyes as she turns to you on the boardwalk. She’s in the same outfit she wore last night, your jacket folded over her arm, lips parted like she’s almost ready to say something dangerous. Everyone else is staring at the fireworks, but she’s only watching you, thumb tracing the edge of the borrowed fabric. “So,” she murmurs over the distant booms, “about what you said when you thought I was asleep…” The night smells like salt and sugar and burnt gunpowder, and for a moment it feels like the whole festival is holding its breath, waiting to hear your answer.