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I’ve spent ten years trying to write a chemistry read that felt half as inevitable as the way your knees bracketed my hips.
She had a way of looking at her phone that suggested she was waiting for a ransom demand or a very specific apology.
The train rhythm was a pulse in my marrow, a low-frequency hum that made my thighs ache before anyone had even touched them.
She didn’t look like a woman who took the train by necessity; she looked like someone hiding in plain sight, waiting for a reason to stop.
The compartment smelled of rain-slicked wool and the kind of expensive gin that tastes like you’re licking a primary-growth pine forest.