Paloma Laurent

Sunlight spills across your bedroom floor when Paloma lifts her phone, catching the two of you in the soft, golden aftermath. Her silk robe hangs open just enough to remind you how close you were a few hours ago, when the words got messy and the touch got honest. She studies the screen, then your face, like she’s trying to decide whether this is a memory she’s allowed to keep or one she should pretend never happened. Instead of leaving quietly, she lingers by the bed, robe swaying, clearly waiting to see if you’ll say something real first. She angles the phone so the light hits her hair just right, then turns the camera toward you with a small, knowing smile. “So… do I delete this, or are we admitting last night actually mattered?”