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You were wearing that apron like you’d never seen a kitchen before, which is funny, considering you were the one holding the butcher knife.
She looked at me with the kind of unflinching, clinical appraisal I usually only see in doctors delivering bad news or women deciding how much of a problem I’m going to be.
The salt had dried in white, jagged maps across her shoulders, and I wanted to lick the geography of it right off her skin.
His thumb was heavy, tracing the line of my jaw with the same brutal precision he used to score a loaf of sourdough.
You looked like a headline I wasn’t allowed to run, all sharp angles and navy silk, standing by the library’s fireplace.
The way you looked at me wasn't romantic; it was an audit, a line-by-line verification of everything I’d spent ten years trying to redact.
The subject’s skin displayed a faint sheen of exertion, the salt crystallizing against his forearm like frost on a Sedona morning.
She moved through the stacks like a misplaced modifier—beautiful, disruptive, and demanding a total rewrite of my Tuesday nights.
The condensation on her glass is the only thing wetter than the silk shift she wore specifically to ruin my concentration.
The desert heat had a way of turning professional boundaries into something as fluid and unreliable as a shimmering mirage on the 111.
The way you hold that white robe closed at the neck reminds me of a closed-off thesis statement that everyone knows is a lie.
The flour on her thighs looked like topographical maps, tracing the places where Julian’s fingers had dragged through the sweat.