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Julian watched me over the rim of his glass with the clinical detachment of a surgeon deciding where to make the first incision.
!["You’re Bleeding Interest Every Second You Stand Over There"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’re-bleeding-interest-every-second-you-stand-over-there"-626-cover-1785758450101.jpg)
I watched the condensation on her glass track a slow, deliberate path down her thumb, mirroring the way my focus descended.
The legal implications were clear, but the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw was an unarguable counter-brief.
Your mouth on my neck felt like the low E string on my daddy’s old Gibson—thick, humming, and heavy enough to make the floorboards shudder.
The condensation on your glass has left a perfect, fleeting ring on the white marble of the bar, a temporary zero.
I’ve spent half my life in places where a wrong move meant a body bag, yet here I am, worried about your heels.