Just Looking

I wasn’t looking.

That’s the lie I tell myself.

Vinyl shop.

Dust and baselines.

Static in the air.

He’s leaning—

lazy, lethal—

half his weight draped like a defiant statue,

earbuds in,

mouth moving,

murmuring lyrics meant for no one.

My skin slicks before my brain can bargain.

Composure cracks.

Confidence slips.

Beautiful men are a bad habit.

I quit them years ago.

Black jeans slung sinful and low,

hips hinting at pressure,

promise,

problems.

I imagine him above me—

then hate myself for how fast my body agrees.

I stare.

He exists.

Then—

as if my wanting weighs too much—

he looks up.

Impact.

His eyes swing heavy,

hard brass blows to the chest.

Soul scattered.

Breath gone.

He bites his lip.

Slow.

Savage.

Blood roars south.

Heartbeat hammers.

I decide he’s nothing.

Decide I’m immune.

I fumble with records,

fake focus,

fight the fever.

Miss the moment he moves.

Miss the space closing.

“Hello.”

One word.

Wreckage.

His voice is velvet dragged over bare skin.

Low.

Lush.

Loaded.

He smells like trouble—

warm, intoxicating,

the kind you don’t sip,

you sink into.

He smiles.

And that’s where it ends—

right there—

before gravity gets its hands on me.