I should focus.
I tell myself this while splashing cold water on my face. The sting bites into my skin, sharp and grounding. For a moment I think it might help, but it doesn’t. The memories still crawl back, thick and sticky, clinging to me like smoke I can’t wash off. His presence. His touch. His words. All of it replaying on loop in my head.
You’re distracted. I see you lose all your control. I know you more than yourself.
I groan, the sound muffled against the tiled walls. The memory of his voice coils around me, slick and heavy, and my legs almost buckle. Just the thought of him close—behind me, surrounding me—suffocates me with a heat I don’t want to admit exists.
The way you get so weak under my touch.
