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Your thumb was hooked under the strap, the weight of the brass pulling your shoulders forward, and I felt the vibration of that low C in the hollow of my own throat.
Julian’s hand on the small of my back wasn’t a gesture of support; it was a territorial claim written in heat and wool.
His thumb was heavy, tracing the line of my jaw with the same brutal precision he used to score a loaf of sourdough.
He adjusted the softbox like he was clearing a jam on a rifle, steady and focused, and my pulse just jumped the track.
His hand on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
He watched the way the compression fabric of her leggings fought against the curve of her hip, a silent, high-tension drama.