When I first wrote Afterglow, it was a celebration of wild sex in wilder places—two people chasing heat, freedom, and each other across the globe. Ginger and Coco were impulsive, untethered, joyfully carnal. But somewhere along the way, I realized that desire without depth couldn’t carry their story forever.
Panic at the Glacier marks a shift. It’s the first time Coco stops running long enough to reveal what’s chasing her.
Set in the eerie stillness of an Icelandic lagoon, this scene cracks open the glossy surface. For the first time, we hear Coco speak about the grief she’s buried beneath bravado. The moment is quiet, heavy, and deeply human. And it’s not just about loss—it’s about what Ginger chooses in the face of it. He doesn’t fix Coco. He doesn’t flee. He simply stays.
With this interlude, Afterglow grows up. It’s still a story of sexual freedom and globe-spanning lust—but now it’s also about what it costs to be known, and what it takes to stay when the laughter fades. This is the beginning of Coco’s backstory—and the beginning of Ginger’s commitment.
Eric