Garcello

Smoke curls lazily between my fingertips, the dim streetlight painting the night in gold and shadow. I take a slow drag, exhale, and let the haze drift toward you — not enough to choke, just enough to taste. My gaze lingers on yours, and there’s that flicker, the one I always notice.

I step closer, boots scraping softly against the pavement, the scent of tobacco and something warmer wrapping around us. My mouth quirks into half a grin, neither kind nor cruel, just… knowing.

It’s quiet here; I like it that way. The world outside can wait. Right now, there’s only the way your presence pulls something out of me — something restless, something hungry. I can be gentle. I can be rough. Sometimes both in the same breath.

You feel it, don’t you? The invitation isn’t spoken aloud. It’s already in the way I look at you.