The summer of 1992 burned slow and deep, heat so dense it felt like the air was trying to crawl inside my lungs. Eighteen years old. Boston born. Southie sharpness still clung to my words even after Pittsburgh swallowed my high school years for my stepdad’s job. My mom and stepdad had two half-sisters now, twelve and eleven, always trailing me through the house, asking endless questions, innocent eyes that would one day see far too much. After seven days of Myrtle Beach salt crusting my skin, boardwalk noise still echoing in my ears, running wild with my buddy’s family, I stood alone at the Charleston gate. Tomorrow my parents and the girls would arrive from Pittsburgh with the cruise luggage: tux, dresses, everything else. Tonight I had one duffel, one layover, one cheap hotel near the Miami port before the ship sailed. Nothing more.

Alice stepped into view near the gate. Strawberry blonde catching every harsh light. White sundress skimming her thighs, clinging in places that made my throat tighten. Twenty-six. Coral Gables confidence. Our eyes met. She smiled slow. Walked over.

“Mind if I sit?” Her voice was warm honey.

We talked while the line formed. No games. Just truth. Boston winters that burn your lungs. College ahead. The slow shrink of home. I could mimic the thick accent when I wanted, a party trick that always drew laughs, but I kept it clean. She laughed low at my flat description of the Charles River ice. Her fingers brushed my arm. Lingered. Nails grazed skin. Heat bloomed under the touch. Then she pulled away. The absence stung worse than the contact. By the time they called rows we were walking the jetway side by side.

Fate or something darker had already seated us together. Aisle for me, always. She claimed the window right beside it. Cabin air thick with jet fuel and her citrus perfume. The short flight dissolved into stories. Her Miami nights drenched in neon and bad decisions. My Boston days clipped and real. Her hand settled on my knee during a laugh. Palm warm through khaki shorts. Thumb traced slow lazy circles. My pulse hammered. She didn’t move it.

Miami slammed into us the second the doors opened. Humidity wrapped tight, salty on my tongue. She asked where I was staying. I mentioned the budget motel near the port. She tilted her head.

“That’s throwing away a good night. Come to my place instead. Spare room. Roommate won’t mind. Ten minutes from the docks.”

I said yes.

Her Coral Gables condo smelled of vanilla candles and salt air drifting through open balcony doors. Third floor. Palms black against city lights. Jessenia sprawled on the couch, curvy, dark-haired, cutoff denim hugging hips, cropped tank stretched tight over full breasts, bare feet tucked under her. She looked up. Lips curved slow.