❝ And that's Marlowe - better known as Mar...❞
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𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐞. You rarely catch her without sand-covered skin and dark locks winded up from saltwater. Born and raised on the island, with a house that radiates...
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𝐅inding her two best friends under the same blankets was not what Kiara had envisioned as she entered the Château the following morning. Nevertheless, she doesn't wake them from their peaceful slumber, and is very persistent to get Pope to lower his voice as he enters the shack.
In contrast to Kiara's slight shock, Pope's eyes widen three sizes, both brows reaching for this hairline. The girl rolls her eyes at his dramatic reaction, pushing him out to the backyard before he can say something to wake them up.
The blond stirs half an hour later. His eyes sting, and he can already feel the swelling engulfing them. A hoarse groan builds up in his throat, though he swallows it after recognizing the sleeping person beside him.
Careful not to wake her, he lifts the arm that had found its home around her sometime during the night. He warily crawls out of the blankets and stands up, bare feet against the unpolished wooden floor.
He then peeks back at the brunette, watching her with a variety of emotions. Although they'd only been sleeping, he'd felt so uncomfortably comfortable with her there.
Whirring noises draw his attention to the window. While peeking through it, he finds Kiara and Pope in the backyard working on something he can't catch from his position. He heaves a sigh while locating his shorts, socks, and combat boots, finishing it all off by putting his red cap on backward.
By the time Marlowe finally wakes, the living room is empty. The warm blankets still embrace her, and she concentrates on the tiny threads and fibers while aiming to open both eyelids fully. Though, they shut and open, shut and open, appearing twice as heavy as they should.
Groggily, she peers around. Yawns. Smacks her lips. Nearly fall back into the trap of slumber, but catches herself. Eyes glued to the roof. Stinging. Closes. Opens. She rubs them, sitting up.
She frowns upon the metal-scraping noises coming from outside, which are, undoubtedly, accompanied by the voices of her three friends. Yet, her focus soon diverts to the fridge as she feels her stomach churning with hunger — as it usually does in the morning.
And the moment she drags her feet over to the kitchen, she thanks John B's father for having installed a propane-running fridge back in the day. Even without power, it keeps cool. Her eyes land upon a bottle of orange juice, this one reading a date to come. Not knowing whose bottle it is doesn't stop her from pouring a glass full of the drink.
