hi, i’m Cohle.
i write cruise-set romances for readers who feel everything, want more than they were told they’re supposed to, and refuse to believe we’ve already seen all the ways love can look. i write from pleasure and grief and deep, deep care—for the natural world, for queer joy, for the infinite ways we make and remake love.
these books are sun-warmed and salt-kissed and a little wrecked, like most real things. you won’t find perfect people here. but you will find breathless moments and earned awakenings. characters who try—who are committed to learning themselves, who listen, who mess up, who find the rhythm of loving wildly, openly and ethically, who are learning pleasure is a birthright.
let’s be honest: i’m a water sign. i like to think that at sea, i become more myself. more curious. more brave. a new possibility emerges: nowhere to run, everything shimmering, the sea saying go deeper.
i write vacation romance not because it’s easy, but because it’s liminal—when the shore disappears, something submerged in us is invited to surface.
these aren’t escape fantasies. they’re threshold moments—floating worlds. all mirror, where the usual rules don’t hold. they’re what it feels like to really look at someone. to let yourself be seen. to touch heat that doesn’t burn away your complexity. to believe that love—messy, mutual, aching, bright—can hold all your particularities.
these books are consent-rich, messy, unapologetically embodied. full of lush settings, blushed skin, and the catch of breath under your ribs.
stories live in the body—where a glance can knock the air out of you, and the right words land like a hand on thigh. i want you flushed and breathless from a sentence.
i’m not interested in tidy romances or clean lines. i want the ache and the laughter. the complication. the fullness of what love can be when we stop pretending it only comes in one shape.
i write because i want to smell the salt in the air.
to feel the press of bare feet on sun-warmed deck.
to fall for characters who rewire me in the best way.
i write because i believe pleasure is instinct, right, and activism.
our love stories are world-building.
i’ve loved across genders, across years, across forms. i’ve lost people i thought i’d never be without. i’ve spent entire seasons teaching my anemone heart how to stay soft.
and still, i bow toward tenderness. consent as seduction. desire as divination. open door sex as magic. the magnitude and flexibility of queer love.
i was raised by books and long summer days, already mourning the eventual disappearance of my new character friends halfway through any story. i craved more than tidy ever afters. i wanted weather—atmosphere thick with maybe, the pulse before the swell, the slow recognition of a shared current beneath it all.
i believe romance can be a radical genre—when we let it be. i’m here for the kinds of stories that touch agency like it’s sacred, that rewrite the shapes of who gets held, and how—the holiness of wanting out loud.
i write for those of us who’ve always had too many feelings, too much body, too many questions about what love could be if we stopped trying to fit it into a too-small, too-simple story.
