There’s no shame in breaking— even gold recalls its flame. I try to gather what is aching, piece by fragile piece remaking, and whisper every fault by name. And you keep watch beside me, soft breath upon my scar— your hands relearning edges, find hollows where hurt still pledges, and warm where the dark things are. Hearts unveil when storms grow heavy, Showing who they truly are. Yet you stay close when skies go vacant, y...

I watch her move through rooms as though light has chosen her first. Every gesture carries a quiet gravity— the tilt of her wrist, the pause before laughter, the way her eyes seem to gather whole afternoons. I say nothing. Longing has learned the language of stillness. Even the air between us is tuned to a note only I can hear. She speaks, and the timbre, smoke and sugar, rearranges the air around me, like dusk settling o...

Just after midnight, the restoration lab belonged to me. Its windows mirrored a stark contrast to the night, where an inky darkness enveloped the outside world. Inside, a soft flickering glow created a sterile type of warmth. My sanctuary of sorts. Most conservators had long since slouched home for the night, except for Marissa, who’d left an hour ago, still muttering about the “priorities” of our new benefactor. Somewher...

I had seen him before— a shadow folded into the stone flank of the city, bones wrapped in a sweater’s husk, as a torrent of hurried shoes swept past untouched. Then you entered. A pause in the relentless sentence, a leaf slipping loose from the season, carrying light in a paper cup, and when you bent toward him a word fell, soft as ash on water. The man looked up— and for an instant, his eyes flared open, above the hunger...

The fluorescent lights in the break room flicker in the peculiar way they do when the ballast is beginning to go, a kind of intermittent hum followed by a brief seizure in the lighting that makes it seem, at least to Randall Sturgess, as though time itself is stuttering. Randall sits at a faux woodgrain table, the Formica peeling at one corner where an old coffee ring had long since stained the surface a deep sepia, and s...

I do not know when I began to yearn for things beyond my reach— but you, you were always more than touch. You were scent upon the stillness of wind, a warmth left in sheets I never laid beside. Your absence, carved in the shape of desire, fills the room like something never exhaled. Your hair— not merely silk, but the hush of time sliding past. Strands that fold as if they understand how everything we love will one day re...

Some places don’t exist on any map—rooms that live between choices, wedged in the silence after a slammed door or the breath before a lie. You don’t mean to end up in them. They find you. They wait with peeling walls and flickering lights, holding the weight of every almost and never-was. Years later, you don’t remember the address, but you remember the way the air felt—stale, expectant, thick with the kind of heat that f...

I want to be where your breath forgets itself, where the quiet between your words darkens with wanting, where your skin, a field at dusk, grows fevered under my mouth. There, in the hallowed shallows of your body, I would linger— where the bones narrow, where the warmth pools, where the low gasp rises like a bird startled from the thicket. Your thighs are a threshold I cross on hands and knees; your belly, a vulnerability...

“I feel disgusting.” The way she said it, it wasn't an apology or a plea. It was simply a truth she laid out between them, as if it were no more strange than saying the sky was blue, or the river ran north. He studied her face, how the sun hit the fine bones beneath her skin, and he could not reconcile the word "disgusting" with what he saw. Her hair was the color of a wheat field set ablaze; her body slim, almost careles...

Call him Elias, if you must call him anything at all—for names are but the flimsy nets we cast over the sea of a man's soul, and Elias Raine is a soul not easily snared. A man of uncommon silences and uncommon storms, he arrived on the island as a shadow might alight on a wall—present, yes, but without ceremony or weight. He brought with him no companion save a battered leather journal, a pair of unrepentant boots, and th...

I forget my name when your hands are on my hips— not in a holy way, but like a match forgets it was wood before the flame. You come in quiet, a storm learning how to whisper, & I’m all windows—open, rattling, daring the wind to break me. Love, you kiss like you’re stealing something. Like the world might end mid-mouth & we’d still owe it a sin. And what is want if not a crime we keep committing with gentler hands? I want...

The field is empty, as it always is when they meet, save for the distant thrum of insects in the grass, the occasional scuttling of a rabbit or bird. The moon, full and silent, rises high above them, a spectral overseer, casting its light in long, cold shafts that turn the world silver. The oak tree stands in the middle of the field, ancient, its skin dark and knotted, a silent witness to their trysts. They had found it,...

I watch her from where I pause as I enter the room. The way the late afternoon sun slants across her back, catching in the fine hairs along her shoulders. She is washing dishes at the sink, the slow, deliberate movement of her hands hypnotic. I step forward, noiselessly, and slide my arms around her waist. She does not startle. She has always known when I am near. "The water's warm," she murmurs, leaning back against me....

You stood there, half in the light, half in the moment, the kind of presence that turns seconds into something else. Not fate—too grand. Not coincidence—too small. Just a blink of the universe winking at itself. The train doors slid open, a rush of wind, the smell of rain and metal, and for a moment, the city folded around us, wrapped us up in its noise, its indifference, but you— you looked at me like you had something t...

It wasn’t fireworks, not the kind they write about in cheap paperbacks, not some goddamn symphony of crashing violins or the way the moon is supposed to weep for lovers. No, it was quieter than that. It was you, half asleep, one bare leg hooked over mine, the rise and fall of your breath against my ribs like the tide, steady, indifferent. It was the way you left coffee rings on my table without apology, the way your finge...