We-ll Always Have Summer May 2026
“You were thinking it.”
The plums fell that week. The first storm came. And I stayed. We-ll Always Have Summer
“You could stay,” he said.
He took the wine glass from my hand, set it on the counter, and kissed me. It tasted like salt and the end of things. I let myself fall into it—the scratch of his jaw, the warm hollow of his collarbone, the way his hand found the small of my back like it had been looking for it all year. “You were thinking it
I was sitting on the counter, barefoot, a glass of white wine sweating in my hand. “I wasn’t going to.” set it on the counter
