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I didn’t want to be the woman who gets unraveled by a consultant in a linen shirt, yet here I am, typing this.
The rain hit the glass like a frantic syncopated brush on a snare, making the silence between our desks feel as heavy as an unplugged amp.
My skin was a map of places I hadn’t given him permission to visit yet, but the thin mountain air was a hell of a drug.
The salt on your neck was a seasoning I hadn't prepared for, sharp and minerals-heavy against the dull sweetness of the hotel's cheap champagne.