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You have this way of holding a cocktail umbrella like it’s a lethal weapon, and frankly, I’m waiting for you to use it on me.
You didn't look like a tourist; you looked like a breach in a perimeter I’d spent a decade and a half building.
She looked at me the way a line cook looks at a ticket rail during a Friday rush—total focus and predatory.
I watched the tendon in your neck pull tight when you laughed, a high-tension wire vibrating in the dark of the sleeper car.
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.