Chapter 7

The morning light filtered through the heavy, velvet curtains of the vintage photo booth, casting long, amber shadows across the cramped interior. It was a strange place to wake up, suspended in a capsule of sepia-toned nostalgia and the lingering scent of carnival grease and expensive cologne. I shifted, my body heavy and loose, tangled in the sheets that had been hastily spread over the small, worn stool. The air was thick, humid with the promise of rain and the heat of our bodies cooling down from the night before. I opened my eyes, blinking against the dimness, and found his gaze already fixed on me. He was propped up on one elbow, his other hand tracing the line of my jaw with a tenderness that made my chest ache. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and there was a faint smear of red lipstick on his cheekbone where I had kissed him in the dark. He looked like a king who had been dethroned by pleasure, and entirely content with the loss. "Good morning, baby girl," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, a low rumble that vibrated against my ribs where my skin pressed