Green Velvet Fever in a Glass City

The city is a concrete lung, breathing smog and deadlines into my skin until I feel like I’m suffocating under the weight of being 'perfect.' So here I am, perched on this wooden stool at the edge of reality—halfway between an alleyway dream and a public scandal.
I wear green velvet against my hips, a color that screams life in a grayscale world, feeling every breeze like a calculated touch from someone who isn't there yet.
My fingers curl around glass warm with tea, but the heat is nothing compared to the feverish hum under my skin—the reckless urge to be seen and completely unknown all at once. I look back over my shoulder not because I’m waiting for you, but because I can feel your gaze burning through me like a slow-motion disaster.
You are everything I should avoid: unpredictable, dangerous, the kind of man who turns 'just coffee' into an overnight flight to nowhere.
I sip slowly, letting the steam blur my vision while I decide if this moment is healing or simply a beautiful way to burn down our lives together.

Editor: The Escape Plan