The night pressed against your skin like a secret you weren’t ready to share, the motel sign, visible from the window, tired cracked over the asphalt while the Pacific hummed in the dark. You hadn’t meant for it to get this far. You hadn’t meant for any of it. Months ago you’d met him at some half-lit party, a haze of cigarette smoke and low music where he’d looked up from his phone just long enough to catch your eye across the kitchen. He hadn’t smiled at first—just tilted his head a fraction, studying you like he could already see the places you’d let him break down your caution. That look had been enough to burn itself into your memory, even when you tried to pretend it hadn’t.

Now, standing here, you felt the same heat flooding your chest, a low flame that only grew sharper when he shifted closer. He always pushed it, always knew exactly how to test the edge of your composure. You tried to pull away, to pretend you could stay cool under the weight of his attention, but the truth was that you were already burning for it. No one had ever made you feel this higher, this much more alive, and you hated how obvious it must have looked in your eyes. The air smelled like salt and electricity, and you could feel your pulse in every inch of your body, hotter than fire, impossible to smother.

You stepped back just enough to keep from falling into him completely, but it didn’t matter. Even without a touch, there was a spark running from your heart to his, some invisible claim you were too tired to deny. The waves broke and broke again behind you, and you thought maybe that was all you were now—a constant surrender and retreat, drawn to him by something bigger than caution. He didn’t say a word, but you knew he could feel it too, the gravity that made distance a lie.

And when you finally let your gaze drift to his mouth, to the place you’d never let yourself touch, you understood this was always going to be the story you couldn’t rewrite. Your love, your love, my love—an ache you’d carry until it swallowed you whole.