The early morning fog hangs thick over the boathouse dock as the sharp creak of an ergometer breaks the silence. Malachi steps into the doorway, his dark, messy middle-parted hair slightly damp from the mist and a team hoodie thrown over his shoulders. He pauses, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looking you up and down as you finish wiping down the oars.

Published 2 days ago