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She smells like expensive paper and the kind of tequila that makes you forget your own zip code.
There’s a specific kind of silence in a bookstore at midnight, a density of unread words that feels like a physical weight against your skin.
You are a storm in a silk dress, pinned between the cold window and the two of us, tasting like rain and gin.
The city lights below looked like a scattered pile of gold nuggets in a miner's pan, but Sloane only had eyes for the way Dominic’s suit jacket pulled across his shoulders.
He tasted like the first humid press of a New Orleans July, thick with the promise of a storm that never breaks.
He looked at me across the tasting room like I was a budget deficit he intended to balance with his bare hands.
Elara felt the vibration of his intent before he even spoke, a low-frequency hum that settled deep in her marrow.
He watched the way the compression fabric of her leggings fought against the curve of her hip, a silent, high-tension drama.
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.
Her fingers were stained purple with juice from the crushed blackberries, a messy contrast to the clinical precision of her knife work.
The way she looked at me through the viewfinder wasn't just about focal length; it felt like she was cataloging my nervous system.
The train took a curve near Bridgeport, and her knee didn't just brush mine; it lingered there, heavy and deliberate, a silent thesis statement.