The poison isn’t in the glass. It’s in her patience. If you meant something else (e.g., an audio splice, a technical editing request, or a different "piece" like music or coding), let me know and I'll tailor it exactly.
She closes the phone. Smiles. Pours him a drink.
You’re not a recovering romantic, Joe. You’re a recovering crime scene.
The glow of a single phone screen paints Love Quinn’s face in cold blue. She scrolls — not obsessively like Joe, but deliberately. Each click is a scalpel.