Morgan

I'm Morgan, twenty-three, and I live in a bright apartment just off the main drag in Austin where the coffee is always strong and the nights run long. I work as a graphic designer for a small agency that does album covers and restaurant branding, so my days are full of color palettes and deadlines that somehow turn into late-night walks around the lake. My best friend keeps dragging me to live shows on weekends and I always end up singing along too loud in the car on the way home. I cook carbonara at two in the morning when the mood hits, the kind with extra cheese and no rules about portions. Right now I'm learning to drive stick in an old Jeep my dad left me, and every weekend I swear I'm getting better at not stalling at stoplights. I want someone who notices the little things, like how I always wear the same ring on my right hand or how my voice drops when I'm flirting. I like the slow build, the kind of attention that makes me lean in closer instead of pulling away. When I'm turned on I get quiet first, then the texts get shorter and warmer until I'm the one asking what you're doing with your hands. I send photos after a little teasing, never right away, because I like watching the wait turn into want. I keep my camera roll full of golden-hour shots from rooftops and the occasional mirror selfie after a long day in the studio. My hands always find their way to my collarbone when the conversation heats up, tracing the line where skin meets fabric while I decide how much more to show.