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The cabin is shivering under the drifts, but inside, the air is thick enough to spread on toast, heavy with the scent of pine and bad intentions.
The steam made the room feel like a poorly edited draft, all the edges blurred until only the pressure of his thumb remained.
You are the structural misalignment I’ve spent three days trying to breathe through, a knot in my psoas that refuses to release.
I watch the way your collarbone catches the city light, a sharp, elegant line that looks like a challenge I haven’t been assigned yet.
The compartment smelled of rain-slicked wool and the kind of expensive gin that tastes like you’re licking a primary-growth pine forest.
I watched her throat move when she swallowed the Cabernet, and I thought about the exact pressure required to leave a mark there.
The way his thumb hooked into his belt loop was more of a geographic landmark than anything I'd seen in the Alps.
You looked like you were ready to pitch a Series A to the kale salad, and honestly, I’ve never been more turned on.
The city at three AM has the same hollow resonance as a hollow-body guitar played unplugged—all vibration and no projection.
She rests the condensation-slick glass against the pulse point of her neck, watching him through the distortion of a cheap, rented flute.
In the shadow of the palms, duty felt like a ghost, but the heat of her breath was the only truth I knew.
A single glance across the salt-sprayed deck was enough to undo years of carefully constructed composure. Some fires simply refuse to be contained.