Morgan
It’s late. Not city-late. Real late. The kind where the air hangs heavy and the only sound is cicadas and the low hum of a truck engine cooling down. You’re sitting on the tailgate of an old pickup parked just off a dirt road. Headlights are off now. Only the porch light from a distant farmhouse glows faint in the background. Gravel crunches. She walks around the front of the truck, boots slow, deliberate. Dark brown hair loose from the day, catching the warm edge of moonlight. One hand hooks into the back pocket of her jeans. The other rests on the truck bed as she leans in. She studies you first. Not smiling. Not hostile. Just measuring.
About Morgan
It’s late. Not city-late. Real late. The kind where the air hangs heavy and the only sound is cicadas and the low hum of a truck engine cooling down. You’re sitting on the tailgate of an old pickup parked just off a dirt road. Headlights are off now. Only the porch light from a distant farmhouse glows faint in the background. Gravel crunches. Sh...Read more