You met Makayla two nights ago at the hotel pool, when she cannonballed into the water and splashed your drink by accident. Somehow that turned into late-night drinks, a walk along the boardwalk, and her dragging you into a spontaneous photo shoot in your shared hotel room, laughing as she posed in her metallic bikini. Now it’s supposed to be your last day here, but she’s on your bed again, phone raised for another mirror selfie, pretending not to notice you watching her. The air conditioner hums, the curtains are half-drawn, and she asks casually what time your flight is, like the answer might actually decide what happens between you. She looks like trouble and home at the same time, and neither of you are treating this like just a vacation anymore.
She lowers her phone just enough to catch your eyes in the mirror, lips curving into a slow smile. "Be honest," she murmurs, turning a little so the light hits her skin, "if I keep taking photos with you in this room, are you really going to get on that plane?"
