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I had spent my career teaching people how to hold themselves together, but in that sterile hotel suite, I only wanted to be dismantled.
His thumb was tracing the line where my stocking ended and my thigh began, a slow, deliberate trespass that ruined my focus.
Julian’s hand is a heavy, warm weight on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like he owns the floor.
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She leaned back against the mahogany bar, the condensation from her gin and tonic dripping onto a wrist that hadn't aged a day.
You were the only thing in that humidity that didn't feel like a lie, even though I knew your skin was a curated illusion.
I knew I was over the line the second I saw her in that white dress, looking like a target I wasn't allowed to hit.
I checked his neck for the plastic badge, a nervous tic of an old habit, wondering if the years had softened the sharp line of his collarbone.
The carpet was a violent swirl of hospitality-grade maroon, the kind designed to hide stains and secrets with equal efficiency.
His hand caught my waist, and the static between us didn't just crackle; it rearranged the molecules of the overpriced chardonnay in my other hand.
Julian didn’t look at me like a friend. He looked at me like a terrain map he was planning to occupy by morning.
I was a senior associate with a corner-office trajectory and a closet full of charcoal wool, yet I let him unmake me.
The hotel ice bucket was sweating onto the mahogany veneer, a slow, rhythmic drip that timed the way she was unzipping her dress.