Echoes of Velvet Smoke

The velvet dress, a bruised emerald against my skin, clung with the heat of the stage lights. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sharper—fear, maybe?
My fingertips traced the cold metal of the microphone, grounding me as the bass throbbed through my ribs, a slow, insistent pulse mirroring the sweat gathering beneath my collarbone. The crowd was a blur of faces, scented with cheap perfume and anticipation, but all I felt was the tremor in his hand beside mine.
He wasn’t looking at me, not really. His gaze drifted to the swirling smoke illuminated by amber gels, yet his palm pressed against mine, a hesitant warmth that bled through my thin glove. It raised gooseflesh across my arms, tiny needles of electricity.
Each note I sang poured out, laced with vulnerability, and with something akin to longing. The microphone hummed, vibrating up my arm, settling into the hollow of my chest.
When the last chord faded, a collective sigh rose from the room. He finally met my eyes—a flicker of recognition in their deep blue depths. A single drop of condensation traced a path down his cheek, cool against my skin as he tilted his head closer. The scent of him – cedar and rain – filled my senses, stealing the air from my lungs. I wanted to lean into that warmth, to dissolve completely within its embrace.

Editor: Pulse