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Tess looks at me with the steady, unblinking focus of a source who is about to lie to my face about everything.
His hand was doing things to my composure that a three-year non-compete clause could never justify, especially with his wife ten feet away.
He was leaning against the parapet like he owned the air rights to the entire block, looking at me like I was a billable hour he couldn't wait to waste.
My heels were sinking into the synthetic turf, and Julian was looking at me like I was a layover he didn't mind extending.
Her hand was flat against my chest, feeling the heart rate I couldn't lie about, while the party roared behind us like a jet engine.
The humidity was a character we couldn't kill off, a thick, persistent weight that made the silk of her dress cling to her back.
!["You're Holding Your Glass Like a Shield"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you're-holding-your-glass-like-a-shield"-65-cover-1782734449998.jpg)
I remember the way the condensation from her gin glass tracked a slow, clear line through the fine dust on her knuckles.
She smells like expensive paper and the kind of tequila that makes you forget your own zip code.
The city lights below looked like a scattered pile of gold nuggets in a miner's pan, but Sloane only had eyes for the way Dominic’s suit jacket pulled across his shoulders.
I can feel the exact moment the ice hit your tongue because my own mouth suddenly tastes like bitter gin and cold iron.
I watch the way your collarbone catches the city light, a sharp, elegant line that looks like a challenge I haven’t been assigned yet.
The city at three AM has the same hollow resonance as a hollow-body guitar played unplugged—all vibration and no projection.