Keep It Open

Some stories are whispered into the void, just in case someone else is listening. Thanks for meeting me here.

This is my first attempt. My offering. My leap. May it land where it needs to.

-Calla

The porch swing creaked just enough to remind me I was moving. Bare legs tucked under cotton. Fresh skin, still warm from the shower. The robe slipped off one shoulder, but I let it. It was that kind of evening.

The land stretched out in front of me— rows of soil still holding the heat of the day, green things pushing through like they had something to prove.

The cicadas started first. Then frogs. Nature winding up her nightly routine, same as always.

My glass sweat in my hand. Gin and tonic. Heavy on the gin. Lime rind clinging to the rim like it had nowhere else to be.

I leaned back. Breathed in. Salt from my skin. Earth from the garden. The faint scent of tomato leaves still under my nails, even after my hot shower. The hot Kansas breeze brushes up to the porch and hits my skin under my robe-his favorite robe.

I see him before I hear him. The truck slows through the break in the trees, dust curling up behind him like smoke.

He parks his truck under the large oak tree while he’s finishing a phone call—mouth moving, voice low—but his eyes? Locked on me since the moment he pulled in. That lazy grin. That wink that saysI see you, baby. I’ll be there in a minute.

I don’t need more than that. I’ve had his eyes on me like this before. Across rooms, across fights, across years. But it always lands the same way: low, in my gut, and then lower.

The door slams shut, hard. That sound always gets me. It’s the punctuation to my wait.

His boots crunch over the gravel, each step slow, measured—like he knows the show he’s walking into. The sun hits his profile just right. Gray catching on his beard in that way I love— earned wisdom, not a little boy. I am 30 years old but I wouldn’t consider being with anyone who hasn’t learned and grown through the lessons that life teaches.

He’s 39 years old, All man. Broad shoulders that have held me up more ways than one. That beard? It’s worn my wetness like a badge more times than I can count. Every drop earned.

And still... every time he walks toward me like this, I feel brand new.

He stops at the steps, one boot on the bottom plank. Doesn’t rush it.

“Hola Christina, mi reina,” he says—voice deep, honeyed, soft just for me. It rolls through me the way his hands do—warm and familiar. But there’s something behind it tonight. Something quieter

I don’t stand. Just smile, lazy and sure. “I’m glad you’re home.”

He comes closer. My legs parting slightly as the swing creaks louder, deeper now, like it’s part of the moment too. The robe slips completely off one shoulders, pooling at your side like a hush fallen over the earth. You’re fully bare to him now—hips wide, breast soft and full, thighs strong and inviting. The glow of the porch light halos your skin in amber.

He doesn’t reach for me like a man in a rush. He kisses my exposed shoulder.

He takes his time—kneeling in front of me, hands on either side of my thighs, eyes never leaving mine. There’s reverence in his touch, like he’s thanking the gods for another summer evening, for another night you chose to stay soft for him.

My eyes dance over his body. But...hiseyes—they don’t sparkle the same. There’s a weight there I haven’t seen since... well, sincebefore.

“I have to go to Puerto Rico,” he says. “And I need you to come with me.”

I blink, the swing slowing to stillness. The cicadas keep chirping. But something just shifted.

Marco has never lied to me. But there are things we don’t talk about— not because I’m naïve, but because he loves me too much to ruin the peace we built out here. Out in the country. In Kansas. Where no one asks questions and the tomatoes grow fat in summer.

He crouches again, both hands on my knees now.

“You know pieces of it,” he says. “My work. Where I came from. What I’ve done.” His eyes don’t flinch. “But I need you to see it for real. The beautiful and the ugly. All of it. Are you open to that?”

I swallow, my pulse slow and steady. Not because I’m unafraid. But because I’ve already decided.

“I’m open,” I say.

And I mean it.

I shift forward, setting my glass down on the porch rail. “Okay,” I say. “Let me pack.”

But he shakes his head, the side of his mouth curling into that slow, wicked smile.

“I’ll pack for you, baby.”

He leans in closer, forehead brushing mine. “I’ve been learning you every day since I met you. You think I don’t know exactly what to bring?”

I bite back a smile, heat blooming low in my belly.

Maybe I don’t need to bring anything at all. Except me.