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He was vibrating with the kind of repressed energy you usually only see in a junior associate who’s just realized they missed a filing deadline.
The air in Flagstaff was too thin for the secrets I was trying to keep, every breath dragging the scent of pine and his skin deep into my lungs.
!["You’ve Got Flour on Your Eyelashes"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’ve-got-flour-on-your-eyelashes"-862-cover-1785110466336.jpg)
He leaned in until the heat from his chest radiated through my silk slip, his breath smelling of peppery olive oil and gin.
The fireplace roared like a dying engine while we stripped away the corporate armor, leaving only the raw, shivering truth of it.
He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.