It started like most dangerous things do. Like fire catching. Silent until it wasn’t.

I wasn’t trying to fall into anything. I never meant to burn. There was no plan, no declaration, no confession.

Just the introductions unexpected and disarming, like sunlight slipping through after days of rain and the glances that lingered a second too long. Conversations that stretched past midnight. A presence that dissolved into breath against my neck. Something electric. Laughter that curled into something softer, louder, warmer.

It wasn’t just flirtation. Though I lingered there more than I should have, like waves teasing the shore, never quite crashing, never truly retreating. Like thunder promising rain, inevitable and patient.

Every word between us felt like a thread pulling tighter. An invitation to touch, to breathe him in, to collapse into what neither of us could name.

Every silence became a dare but neither of us could stop asking. And in those charged moments, I knew I was circling something that could consume me if I ever said it out loud.

There was no affair. But the hunger lived in my pulse every time he came too close. In the way his voice lowered when the room went quiet. In how my breath caught when his eyes found mine across the chaos. He was gravity, and I kept pretending it was a coincidence. Magnetic poles, pretending to be strangers.

There was no safe distance between us. He was fire. I was flame. Meant to burn in the same breath. He didn’t just light me up; he made me flicker, flare, and ache.

I didn’t just want him. I ignited in his presence, like a plain stone catching light, suddenly illuminating in ways that rivaled any diamond.

He teased my mind firs then possessed it completely. Somehow, without ever laying a hand on me, he owned my body. That was the kind of pull he had. Sometimes, the mind knows long before the body ever catches up.

And I felt him in my bones before he ever touched me.

Desire doesn’t always begin with touch. Seduction isn’t always about skin. Sometimes, it’s energy. It’s the weight of a glance, the edge of a word that lingers….turning into a nightfall of ache. That was the raw truth of us.

Whatever this is, it runs deeper. It hums beneath the surface. It lives in the pauses, in the quiet between thoughts, in the moments where words collapse.

There’s a deep emotional intimacy in our words, layered with wit and hesitation, longing and ache, and an impossible sensuality we both couldn’t deny.

This connection between boldness and vulnerability. It’s the kind of chemistry that lives in glances, in silence, in unfinished messages. The kind of bond that doesn’t need constant contact to feel alive—it just is.

It’s the way my heart finds rhythm when he’s near. The way his voice alone can unravel me and build me back up. The way his presence soothes something inside me while stirring everything else.

It lives beneath reason, in unfinished sentences, and in the way his absence lingers in places I can’t explain. An ache I don’t know how to soothe.

It pulses with every heartbeat. It doesn’t ask for permission to consume or transform. It’s just there, lingering in presence and absence.

I am emotionally intimate and exposed, like a whisper carried by wind over water. Always heard, never loud. Like a secret exchanged in dim light, tender and irreversible.

I am sexually drawn and synced, like the moon pulling at the ocean. Constant, unrelenting. Like the tide meeting the shore, receding, and returning harder each time.

I am spiritually tethered, like salt on skin after an ocean swim, impossible to unfeel. Like seawater steeped into pores, leaving behind a sting that refuses to rinse away.

It’s the kind of connection that haunts, day and night. I’ve tasted it (again and again) in glances that last seconds but burn for days. Unbound. Unspoken. Untamed.

No. I won’t call it just desire. I didn’t label it love either.

This isn’t just love. This isn’t mere want.

It’s something older than both. Something more…..divine, ancient, and feral.

And even if the world calls it madness or fails to understand it, I know it’s real.

So fucking real, it makes everything else about us feel like fiction.

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