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The ice in Ben’s glass had melted into a single, jagged shard by the time Elias finally put his hand on my knee.
The air in the gallery was that specific brand of recycled desert heat, the kind that smells like expensive ozone and desperate ambition.
Caleb tasted like expensive rye and ten years of things we didn't have the guts to say while Elena watched us with that hungry, terrifying smile.
Desire in a mid-range Marriott has a specific, synthetic frequency, like the hum of a mini-fridge struggling against a humid July night.