A Taste of Midnight Honey

I traced the rim of my wine glass, watching the amber liquid catch the neon glow. The city outside was a cold beast, but inside this booth, we were warm and slow.

“You look delicious tonight,” he whispered, his voice rough like gravel under velvet.
I smiled, feeling the weight of my eyelashes flutter. It wasn’t about hunger; it was about being known. He reached out to brush a thumb against my lower lip, tasting me before we even touched tongues.

“You taste like sweet nectar,” he murmured against the softness of my skin.
“And you?” I asked, letting him pull me closer.
The air between us shimmered with spice and heat.

“I taste like home,” he answered softly,
a place where all the city’s noise dissolves into something sweeter.

Editor: Midnight Diner