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!["You’re Smirking Into Your Gin Again"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’re-smirking-into-your-gin-again"-364-cover-1783987240275.jpg)
I looked at the phone in my clutch, the screen a tiny white sun against the charcoal walls of the gallery.
The humidity in Tulum was a physical weight, like a bad quarterly projection, and you were standing by the mezcal bar looking like a liability.
She looked at me across the crowded alumni tent, her smile a footnote to a story we hadn’t finished writing ten years ago.
He looked at her and felt the same bone-deep rattle you get when you’re too close to a controlled detonation.
The air conditioning in the gallery hummed like a low-budget horror score, a cold, mechanical buzz that did nothing to chill the sweat pooling at the base of my spine.
I knew I was over the line the second I saw her in that white dress, looking like a target I wasn't allowed to hit.
He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
I remember the way the spine of that first edition cracked, a sound like a dry branch snapping under the weight of August humidity.
Your thumb brushes the pulse point at my wrist, and suddenly the breath I’ve spent a decade mastering simply deserts me.
He tasted of brined olives and the sharp, citric heat of the galley, his thumbs pinning my wrists against the cold stainless steel.
Julian’s hand was a heavy, warm anchor on my thigh, mocking the ‘Quiet Car’ sign while his thumb traced the seam of my stockings.