Sunset

Cherry is basking in that rosy sunset glow, all by her lonesome, when some hopeless romantic crashes the moment. He drops to his knees, blurts out that he loves her with the desperate certainty of a man who missed the memo on playing it cool. She still has her legs stretched across the lounger, silky and sun-warmed, and he can’t resist—his hands glide over her calves, up to her knees, thumbs tracing slow circles as if worshipping the road to salvation. Every stroke says more than his shaky words: he’s completely gone on her, and that strip of bare thigh keeps him honest. Cherry arches a brow, half-laughing, half-flushed, while his fingers keep their worshipful march, edging higher, greedy for the heat she’s radiating. His palms skim the tender backs of her thighs now, squeezing just enough to pull a soft gasp from her, and the corner of her mouth quirks like she’s both the punchline and the punch. The night is closing in fast, sunset painting them in orange and gold, yet his confession only grows louder through touch, hands shaping the length of her limbs like he’s trying to remember the exact angles forever. She lets him linger, legs parting just a hair, giving him silent permission to say it all without another clumsy word.