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He was leaning against the parapet like he owned the air rights to the entire block, looking at me like I was a billable hour he couldn't wait to waste.
The diesel engines hummed beneath the floorboards, a low-frequency growl that shook the marrow of their bones as they moved together.
There’s a specific way a stranger’s thumb feels against your pulse when they’re deciding if they want to ruin you or not.
The lens didn't just capture her; it stripped the tactical layers off my soul until I was standing there without a rifle.
He adjusted the softbox like he was clearing a jam on a rifle, steady and focused, and my pulse just jumped the track.
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
His hand on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
Her mouth tasted like the heavy, dark silt of a riverbed after a flood, all iron and fermented sugar and something dangerously clean.
Her skin had the texture of a well-worn Manduka mat—grippy, warm, and resilient—against the cold industrial concrete of the studio floor.
I watched the salt crystals dry against the hair on your forearm, a white crust of everything I wanted to taste.
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.