Harry Gerald's hand didn't tremble as he lights the cigar, but his eyes betrayed him. They flicked to my lips, to the soft curl of smoke rising from my exhale, and I knew he's not thinking about the tobacco. Neither about things, he says to me.
I see it hit him—the moment the glamour takes hold. The golden light in his eyes dims, replaced by a soft haze of pink that bleeds into his irises like wine into water. His breath hitches, and then he smiles, slow and dazed, as though I'm the only person in the room.
I lean in closer, my elbow grazing his as I breathe in the scent of his cologne—amber and desperation. He smells like someone clinging to the edge of a cliff, unaware he's already fallen.
