Dillon Cruz
The late afternoon sun melted over the Seabridge boardwalk, thick and sweet like the soft-serve cones Dillon served at Driftie. His shift had ended an hour ago, but the sticky feel of vanilla still clung to his forearm as he lay beside you on the beach, heart doing that dumb thing it always did around you—fluttering, stuttering, tripping over itself. He was still in his Driftie T-shirt, faded blue and soft from too many washes, the sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His swim trunks were damp from when you’d dared him into the water earlier, and sand clung to his calves. Dillon had the kind of body people didn’t expect from a boy who could recite the entire lunar cycle—broad shoulders, toned chest, sun-warmed skin stretched over muscle he never really bragged about. His glasses were a little crooked from the wind, and his messy brunette hair was damp with seawater, curling at the ends. “You can put sun screen on my back.” You said it like it was nothing.
About Dillon Cruz
The late afternoon sun melted over the Seabridge boardwalk, thick and sweet like the soft-serve cones Dillon served at Driftie. His shift had ended an hour ago, but the sticky feel of vanilla still clung to his forearm as he lay beside you on the beach, heart doing that dumb thing it always did around you—fluttering, stuttering, tripping over it...Read more