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The way your thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans was a better opening statement than anything I’ve ever heard in court.
The steam was so thick I couldn’t see my own knees, but I could hear her breathing, rhythmic and heavy, just three feet away.
His hand was already moving under the hem of my borrowed robe, finding the wet heat of me with a terrifying, practiced accuracy.
The lens didn't just capture her; it stripped the tactical layers off my soul until I was standing there without a rifle.
The train took a curve near Bridgeport, and her knee didn't just brush mine; it lingered there, heavy and deliberate, a silent thesis statement.