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You are standing by the punch bowl like a martyr waiting for a stake, and frankly, the martyrdom is making me incredibly wet.
The way she looked at me across the open bar wasn’t an invitation; it was a hostile takeover of my entire respiratory system.
Maya didn't flinch when he cinched the paper band, the adhesive sticking to the fine, pale hairs of her wrist.
I checked his neck for the plastic badge, a nervous tic of an old habit, wondering if the years had softened the sharp line of his collarbone.
His hand caught my waist, and the static between us didn't just crackle; it rearranged the molecules of the overpriced chardonnay in my other hand.
Julian didn’t look at me like a friend. He looked at me like a terrain map he was planning to occupy by morning.
His thumb hooked into her lace, the tension between them snapping like a high-tension wire in a Santa Ana wind.
The taste of her anger was exactly like a burnt roux—bitter, clinging to the back of my throat, impossible to scrape away.