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The condensation on the glass doesn’t just blur the view; it rewrites the physics of how I’m supposed to look at you.
I’ve spent half my life in places where a wrong move meant a body bag, yet here I am, worried about your heels.
The Amtrak coffee tasted like a wet wool blanket, but you were looking at my mouth like it was the only thing on the menu.
His hand was heavy on the small of my back, a grounding weight that felt less like an invitation and more like an anchor.
She didn’t just sing; she pulled the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with something that tasted like copper and old secrets.
Her back was arched against the bathroom door, and for a second, the only sound was the radiator hissing like a disgruntled extra.
She stood there in that ridiculous desert light, smelling like expensive sage and cheap gin, waiting for me to fail at being professional.
Your hands were behind your back, your wrists crossed, and for a second, the only sound was the tide hitting the rocks.
The way you stood before the charcoal sketch of the dead orchard, your knees locked and your hands behind your back, was the only honest thing in that room.
The taste of her anger was exactly like a burnt roux—bitter, clinging to the back of my throat, impossible to scrape away.
The elastic of her mask had left a red indentation across her cheekbone, a tiny topographical map of the night before.
Her thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging just enough to make me lose the rhythm of my breath.