9. Emory #2
"Focus more on authentic experiences and less on luxury," I say slowly, working through the idea as I speak. "Create content about affordable travel, real cultural immersion, sustainable adventure. Partner with brands that align with actual values instead of just whoever pays the most."
"That sounds incredible," Vada says with enthusiasm. "And much more sustainable, both financially and emotionally."
"What about you?" I ask, genuinely curious about what she’s doing. "Event planning looks like it's going really well from what I can see online."
"It is going well," she says, though something in her tone suggests there's more there too. "But getting here was harder than I make it look on social media."
"What do you mean?"
She's quiet for a moment, watching the candle flames flicker while thunder continues rolling across the ocean. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more vulnerable.
"The corporate job I left," she starts, "it didn't just end because I wanted to be entrepreneurial. I was essentially forced out by workplace politics that got really ugly."
"What happened?"
"My supervisor took credit for a major proposal I'd spent three months creating," she says, and I can hear old anger still threading through her voice.
"When I tried to address it through proper channels, suddenly my work performance was being questioned, my projects were being reassigned, and I was being excluded from meetings I'd organized. "
"That's terrible," I say, feeling anger on her behalf for something that happened before I even knew she was dealing with it.
"The worst part was how it made me doubt myself," she continues. "For months after I left, I wondered if maybe they were right, maybe my work wasn't as good as I thought, maybe I was being dramatic about the credit issue."
"I doubt you were just being dramatic," I say with complete certainty. "You've always been incredibly talented at organizing people and creating beautiful experiences. Anyone who worked with you in college could see that."
"Thank you," she says, and the gratitude in her voice suggests she needed to hear that more than I realized. "Building my own business has been this constant balance between proving I was right to believe in myself and terrifying vulnerability about whether I can actually make it work."
"But you are making it work," I point out. "Your social media presence has grown incredibly, you're booked solid with clients, and everyone can see how talented you are."
"Most days I believe that," she says with a soft smile. "Other days I feel like I'm one bad review away from everyone realizing I'm a fraud who's just making it up as I go along."
"Imposter syndrome is brutal," I say, understanding exactly what she means. "I feel like that about travel content sometimes—like everyone's going to realize I'm just a guy with a camera who's gotten lucky so far."
"Sounds like we're both more successful than we think we are," she sighs. "And more insecure about it than anyone would guess from our social media presence."
"Probably," I agree. "Though talking about it helps. I haven't told anyone about the financial stress before."
"Why not?"
I consider that question, watching the way candlelight plays across her face.
"Pride, mostly," I admit. "And fear that admitting struggle would damage the brand I've worked so hard to build. But also because I didn't have anyone I trusted enough to be that vulnerable with."
"And now?" she asks quietly.
"Now I do," I say, meeting her eyes across the flickering candlelight. "You always were the person I could tell anything to."
"Why did we break up?" she asks, her voice careful. "I mean, we know the official story about different post-graduation plans, but what was happening?"
I'm quiet for a long moment, thinking about that last month of college when everything between us started feeling strained.
"Fear, I think," I say finally. "We were both scared that we wanted different things, but instead of talking about it honestly, we started pulling back from each other."
"I remember that," she says softly. "Everything suddenly felt so serious and permanent, and I started panicking about whether I was ready for that level of commitment."
"And I started feeling like I was holding you back from the stable career track you wanted," I add. "All those conversations about post-graduation plans made me feel like my travel dreams were selfish or unrealistic."
"But they weren't," she says with conviction. "Look what you've built. You turned those dreams into a successful career."
"And you turned your need for stability into something even better—creating security on your own terms instead of depending on someone else for it," I counter.
"We were just kids," she observes. "Twenty-two years old and terrified of making the wrong choice about forever."
"Twenty-two-year-old us probably made the right choice," I say, and mean it.
"And now?" she asks, echoing her earlier question but with deeper implications this time.
"Now I think we might be ready for what we were too scared to try then," I say honestly. "The question is whether you feel the same way."
Before she can answer, lightning illuminates the entire suite with brilliant white light, followed immediately by thunder that's so loud it seems to shake the building.
"This storm is incredible," Vada says, moving to the windows to watch rain lashing against the glass in torrential sheets.
I join her at the windows, standing close enough that I can feel her warmth while we watch nature's power display over the ocean. The resort has essentially disappeared into the darkness, leaving us feeling completely isolated in our candlelit sanctuary.
"It's beautiful," I say, though I'm looking at her reflection in the glass more than the storm outside.
"Very beautiful," she agrees, turning to face me.
Standing this close, with candlelight shadows and the storm providing a dramatic soundtrack, this talk about finally being ready for the real thing feels inevitable.
"Emory," she says, my name barely a whisper.
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm ready for what we were too scared to try back then," she says, echoing my earlier words but making them a confession instead of a question.
"You think?" I ask, stepping closer until there's no space between us.
"I know," she corrects, looking up at me with green eyes that are completely certain. “Guess I was always up for this. Just talked myself into thinking it wouldn't work with you.”
"And now?" I ask, though I can guess the answer from the way she's looking at me.
"Now I think practical is overrated," she says with a smile that makes my heart race. "Totally worth the gamble.”
Leaning in to kiss her felt…this kiss felt different. More serious, like we were actually deciding we wanted this, not just caught up in the vibe.
"I missed this," I murmur against her lips, then prove it by kissing her again.
"I missed feeling…" she breathes when we break apart for air. "like someone really sees me, understands what I'm trying to build, believes in my dreams."
"I see you," I say with complete honesty. "I see how awesome you are now, how you totally rebuilt your career your own way, and how amazing you are when you're really into what you're doing."
"And look at you," she replies, her hands framing my face with gentle certainty. "How hard you've worked to build something meaningful, how much you've grown since college, how you still look at the world like it's full of possibilities."
Another loud clap of thunder, but instead of interrupting the moment, it just makes our cozy, stormy hideaway feel even more private.
I wrap my arms around her, lifting her easily as she wraps her legs around my waist, and carry her to the bed.
The storm outside becomes our soundtrack as we lose ourselves in each other—tender and desperate, familiar yet completely new.
Every kiss, every touch feels like coming home and discovering something incredible all at once.
Lightning illuminates our candlelit suite in dramatic flashes as his hands move with purpose, undressing me slowly while the storm rages across the ocean beyond our terrace.
When his mouth finds that sensitive spot just below my ear, I arch against him with a soft moan that mingles with the sound of rain against the windows, my fingers threading through his hair to hold him there.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with desire and barely audible above the thunder that rolls across the water, and I love how sure he sounds, how sure we both are about this moment in our private paradise.
We move together with confidence, the storm's rhythm matching our own as wind whips the palm trees outside and lightning turns our skin silver in fleeting moments.
There's heat and intensity that rivals the tempest beyond our walls, but also this beautiful certainty—we're choosing this, choosing each other, while nature puts on its own passionate display for us.
When I look into her eyes in that moment when we finally come together, I see everything—the girl I fell in love with in college, the woman she's become, and this perfect present moment that belongs entirely to us, cocooned in candlelight while the storm rages in wild celebration around our sanctuary.
Afterward, we collapse together in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, rain-cooled air drifting across our heated skin. I trace lazy patterns on her back while she catches her breath against my chest, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are soft with satisfaction and something deeper.
"God, you're amazing," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I love the way you move, the sounds you make..." My voice drops lower, rougher. "The way you look at me like that."
"Like what?" she asks, though I can feel her pulse quickening again at the heat in my gaze.
"Like you want to devour me," I say, my thumb brushing across her bottom lip. "Like you're thinking about what you want to do to me next."
Her eyes darken at my words, at the way my hands are starting to map her skin again with deliberate intent. "Maybe I am," she whispers against my throat, letting her teeth graze the sensitive spot there that makes me groan.
"Tell me," I breathe, my hands growing bolder, more possessive. "Tell me what you're thinking."
I can feel desire stirring again at the reverence mixed with raw hunger in her voice, the way her touch is becoming less gentle and more demanding.
As we map the changes in each other's bodies and remember what we'd forgotten we'd lost, we're more deliberate.
My hands are gentler now, reverent as they trace the small scar on her shoulder from that hiking accident three years ago, the new freckles from too much sun.
She explores the broader expanse of my chest, the way my shoulders have filled out, how my skin tastes the same under her lips.
"Perfect," I murmur, pressing soft kisses along her collarbone, and she believes me because of the way I'm looking at her—like she's exactly what I want, right here, right now.
This time when we move together, it's with the assurance of people who know what they're doing, who want to explore every sensation, every response, every way we can make each other feel good.
My thumb traces her bottom lip as she moves above me, and when she leans down to kiss me, it's deep and confident and full of the chemistry that's been building between us since we reconnected.
When she finally collapses against my chest afterward, both of us breathing hard and tangled in the sheets, the storm outside has gentled to match our new rhythm, as if it too is satisfied.
Rain patters against the windows in a gentler cadence now, and the thunder has moved on across the ocean, leaving us in our own private world where candlelight flickers against rain-washed glass and the air smells of jasmine and sea salt and the intoxicating scent of us together.
I could drift off right here, wrapped in her warmth and the soft aftermath of what we've shared, but reality waits outside this room. I'm sure that Erika has already created a revised itinerary for the day. For now though, I want to stay in this bubble we've created.
"We should probably talk about what happens next," she says, though she's reluctant to introduce practical concerns into our emotional breakthrough.
"We should probably talk about what happens next," she says, though she's reluctant to introduce practical concerns into our emotional breakthrough.
"Eventually," I agree, but I make no move to increase the distance between us. "Right now, I'm perfectly happy being here with you, figuring out how this feels without worrying about how it works."
"How does this feel?" she asks.
"Like coming home," I say simply. "Like remembering something I thought I'd lost forever."
"That's exactly how it feels," she agrees, and I press a kiss to the top of her head because I can and because she's here and because after years of wondering "what if," we're finally exploring the answer.
We settle into comfortable silence, listening to the storm and ocean while processing everything we've shared tonight. Her head rests on my shoulder, my arm around her waist, both of us completely content to exist in this moment without needing to define it or plan what happens next.
The power flickers back on sometime later, sudden artificial light disrupting our candlelit intimacy and reminding us that the outside world still exists. We both squint at the brightness, then laugh at the way we've been perfectly happy in our storm-created sanctuary.
"Reality returns," Vada observes, though she makes no move to extract herself.
"Some reality," I correct, looking out the windows where the storm has moved on. "We're probably stuck inside for the rest of the day."
"Terrible hardship," she says with obvious contentment, settling more comfortably against my side. "However will we manage?"
"I have some ideas," I say, which earns me a look that's equal parts amused and interested.
"Do you now?"
"We could order room service," I suggest. "Continue our own celebration."
"I like the way you think, Wise," she says, reaching for her phone to check the resort's room service options. "Though I should probably grab some clothes."
"Should you?" I ask with mock seriousness. "You won’t need them."
She laughs and hits me with a throw pillow, which somehow turns into brief playful wrestling that ends with both of us laughing and completely tangled together.
"Okay," she says when we've caught our breath.