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Reid’s thumb traced the line of my sports bra, his skin smelling of pine needles and the kind of sweat that doesn't need an apology.
He leaned against the philosophy section, looking less like a shopkeeper and more like a man waiting for a stunt coordinator to call action.
Mara didn’t just walk through the stacks; she claimed them like a cartographer who had finally found the actual soil.
Julian didn’t look at me like a friend. He looked at me like a terrain map he was planning to occupy by morning.
The scaffolding groaned beneath us, a rusted skeleton articulating our shared sins against the backdrop of a cold, indifferent New England sky.
The rain was coming down in sheets of gray iron, blurring the world outside until there was nothing left but the two of them and the smell of old paper.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.