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You have flour on your cheek, a smudge that looks like a thumbprint, and I’m wondering if you’d jump if I wiped it off.
He looked at me with the kind of focused intensity I usually reserved for fact-checking a deputy mayor’s expense report.
The condensation on the window pane mirrored the way her sweat beaded against the small of her back in the dim light.
There’s a specific way a stranger’s thumb feels against your pulse when they’re deciding if they want to ruin you or not.
I watched your thumb trace the spine of that paperback with a deliberate pressure that made me wonder how you’d handle a living thing.
I watched the way your thumb smoothed over the flour on the marble, a rhythmic, unconscious erasure of everything but our immediate proximity.
The air in the cellar didn't just carry the scent of oak and fermenting fruit; it carried the literal weight of her heartbeat against my own ribs.
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
My psoas muscle, usually the first thing to tighten under stress, felt like it was melting into the gallery floor.
I’m recording this because if I die of hypothermia or a bad decision, I want the record to show he was incredibly hot.
His hand on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
You smell like the dust of the Cascades and the specific, metallic salt of a man who’s been working in the sun for ten hours.