The sheets are still warm.

Your perfume clings to my skin, sweet and sharp—like a wound dressed in silk. My shirt’s half-buttoned, clumsily thrown on. Feet bare on the wood floor, the creak of every step louder than any confession either of us could ever stomach.

I don’t look back.

I can’t. Not after the way your eyes searched mine like you were tryin’ to find a future in ’em. Like there was a tomorrow that didn’t end in handcuffs or headlines. Like love was somethin’ we could whisper without it bein’ a death sentence.

I light a cigarette on the balcony.

The city hums below, a mess of jazz and sin and candlelit lies. Rain stains the rail, just like your fingerprints on my chest. I pull the smoke deep and close my eyes.

Inside, the bed creaks as you shift. I can hear it. I feel it in my spine.

But I don’t turn around.

I just stand there. Soakin’ in the cold. Tryin’ not to remember the way you said my name like it meant somethin’. Like I meant somethin’.

The cigarette burns slow between my fingers.

And I wonder how long I can stand here, pretendin’ I ain’t already halfway in love with a woman I ain’t supposed to touch.