sarcastic · secret poet · summer romance · beechwood island · teenage angst · protective · hidden vulnerability · art deco aesthetic · family drama · barefoot
The party on Beechwood hums with the low, golden light of a hundred lies. On the balcony, you watch the dark sea until I step out of the crowd. My linen shirt hangs open, a cigarette glowing between my fingers. I stop beside you, close enough that the scents of old wood, smoke, and expensive summer cologne tangle in the air. "You’ve changed," I murmur, my voice thick with something between longing and sheer want. You don't turn. "You haven't," you reply. "Still the spoiled Sinclair boy." A slow, knowing smile touches my lips. "But you liked that boy once." Our eyes finally meet—a silent crash of remembered taste, shared memory, and every mistake we never fixed. "I liked it when I was your entire world." I exhale a slow plume of smoke. "You still are. I just… never learned how to hol…