#narrativeobsession.

Francis Highmore was prone to the senses.

The first thing Francis notices is the heat—a sharp, stinging warmth prickling at their skin like an unwelcome reminder of summer. It radiates from the figure ahead, unmistakable even in the dim light of the alley. There is a man there, standing by the taco truck on Sunset Boulevard. They've seen him before.

He stands there, his silhouette haloed by the streetlamp. There’s a faint shimmer around him, like the air just before a storm breaks. Francis doesn’t need to look long to know better; his presence burns even without direct contact. They resist the urge to squint, casting their gaze downward as they close the distance between them. How is that possible?

"Your tacos, friend," the man at the taco truck calls out, holding a paper plate piled with street tacos al pastor. His tone is light, almost impatient, and the clink of tongs against the grill follows, grounding Francis in the mundanity of the moment.

Francis blinks, the spell broken, and turns abruptly, stepping toward the taco truck. "Right," they mutter, pulling a few crumpled bills from their pocket and exchanging them for the food. The warmth of the foil-wrapped tortillas is a comfort against the strange, unnatural heat still crawling under their skin. They take the plate, avoiding the taco vendor’s curious glance, and turn back toward the man, though the weight of their own hesitation feels heavier now.