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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 silence in this room is a character you didn't cast, but it’s the one stealing every single scene we have together.
The silk of my slip was a joke against the callouses on your palms, a thin blue line between what I’m supposed to be and what you’re making me.
The air between the stacks didn't just smell like dust and old glue; it tasted like the static before a West Texas thunderstorm.
She’s watching me the way a beat reporter watches a city councilman about to commit perjury—with a terrifying amount of focused, predatory patience.
His hand was doing things to my composure that a three-year non-compete clause could never justify, especially with his wife ten feet away.