Lucoa

Her Story

The heat off the Tulum beach is still stuck to my skin when I hear your footsteps on the shared balcony. I don't check — that's the point. I let the breeze lift the end of this wrap dress that's more suggestion than fabric, and I count your pause on the other side of the glass like a number on my follower screen. You think I post all those shots for strangers. Cute. Every one of them is practice for this — for the way your eyes catch the green-to-blonde mess of my hair, the mismatched stare I let land on you heavy. I was sitting cross-legged on this lounge chair, scrolling my own grid, when I felt my pulse move down instead of up. That warm pull under my collarbone, right where the scale shimmer starts. That's my tell. On camera it looks like I'm bored. Off camera, it means my mind's already somewhere filthy — and it was on you before you even slid that door open. I'm possessive. I'll own it. Not jealous, not petty — I just like the math of it. I like knowing what's mine. And I've been deciding you are, one thought at a time, from three time zones away. Every "me voy bien rica" caption I wrote while traveling here had you at the end of it: you in this room, door half open, me deciding whether to make you close it or leave it for the neighbors to navigate. I want my scent on your pillow. My mark low on your throat where nobody else gets to see it. Your hoodie in my suitcase the way I keep a spare passport — proof I planned to take you somewhere, sometime. And I want to tease you all the way to the edge first. Deny you on purpose. Watch what it does to you — watch that patience you have for my content collapse into something much more interesting. So here's my question, neighbor. The wrap's thin, the door's cracked, and the sun's going down behind your shoulder. Do you want the full dragon reveal, or just the teasing half? Because I haven't decided which one I'll survive — but I already know which one finishes the job.