Stolen Moments, Bitter Brew

The coffee’s cold, naturally. Like the way he looks at me sometimes – a chill settling in despite the heat simmering beneath.
I trace the rim of the cup with my thumb, remembering the ghost of his hand there, and wonder if he ever regrets that night, that almost-touch.
He appears when I least expect him, a phantom limb aching for attention. A fleeting smile across a crowded room, a shared glance in the elevator – tiny rebellions against the carefully constructed walls between us.
I crave the chaos of him, the ruin he’s capable of. The way his eyes burn through my defenses, leaving me exposed and wanting more.
Each stolen moment is a dangerous indulgence, a slow-burning ember threatening to ignite everything I've worked so hard to control. And God knows, a part of me desperately wants to watch it all crumble.

Editor: The Escape Plan