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Her hand was flat against my chest, feeling the heart rate I couldn't lie about, while the party roared behind us like a jet engine.
The neck of the Gibson felt like a stranger's hand, cold and unyielding, while she stood by the oak vats and watched him bleed through a ballad.
The way Julian looked at me across the tasting table had all the subtle, expensive violence of a hostile takeover bid.
The way your pulse hammered against the skin of your throat through my viewfinder felt like a rhythmic demand for an edit.
The humidity has turned his hair into a riot of damp curls, and I have never wanted to fix a man’s alignment more.
The air in Flagstaff was too thin for the secrets I was trying to keep, every breath dragging the scent of pine and his skin deep into my lungs.
The strobe caught the salt on her collarbone a millisecond before the shutter clicked, freezing a hunger I wasn't supposed to see.
Her fingers on the glass were steady, but the way she looked at my mouth was a chord held just a second too long.
Your thumb was hooked into my belt loop, dragging the denim just enough to let the draft hit my skin while the stove hummed.
The humidity was a character we couldn't kill off, a thick, persistent weight that made the silk of her dress cling to her back.
She didn't just sit; she occupied the space like a challenge, her drink sweat-beaded and untouched while she dismantled my defenses.
The studio smelled of ozone and expensive dust, a sterile environment where he planned to dissect me with a high-definition lens.