Charming. Crammed between espresso machine and whatever word you'd call us.
Charming. Your grinning key-change in the empty backstage noise.
Charming. Public charm is the decoy for how I stare.
Charming. The trainer whose crushes call for longer cool-downs.
Charming. One eyebrow raised. You're already losing.
Charming. That clip-on roster is my third lung.
Charming. Dirt under his fingernails — gardener's hands with an actor's mouth.
Charming. Hums basslines from Finest Kind off the processor fan.
Charming. Still holding that dance pose—your mouth where his pulse was.
Charming. My voice is a tool built to undo you.
Charming. Guard sets terms you'll beg to keep.
Charming. Steals your attention like it was always his.
Charming. The scallop spat at me right back.
Charming. Stole your attention from a room of strangers and isn't giving it back.
Charming. Slow breathwork hiding an already-impatient need.
Charming. Traces your collar before he corrects it — still on the clock, barely.
Charming. You hold my case. I hold the leash.