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He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.
The air in the club was thick with the kind of expensive dust that only accumulates in places where the gin is twenty dollars.
!["Keep Your Eyes on the Knife"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"keep-your-eyes-on-the-knife"-474-cover-1775998845624.jpg)
He tasted like the last bit of crusty bread used to swipe a plate of debris—salt, fat, and the ghost of a good red wine.
His hand was heavy on the small of my back, a grounding weight that felt less like an invitation and more like an anchor.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes the glass, turning the Tuileries into a blurred green smear that looks like a bad recon photo.
The cabin is shivering under the drifts, but inside, the air is thick enough to spread on toast, heavy with the scent of pine and bad intentions.
I watched her throat move when she swallowed the Cabernet, and I thought about the exact pressure required to leave a mark there.
The way his thumb hooked into his belt loop was more of a geographic landmark than anything I'd seen in the Alps.