I feel him before I turn.
Not the sound of his footsteps.
Not the shift of the floor.
Him.
The air behind me has weight now — warm, charged, aware — like standing too close to a live wire that hums instead of shocks. My breathing has slowed without permission, each inhale deeper than the last, as if my body is trying to match a rhythm it recognizes but cannot name.
The energy in the room presses gently at my back.
Not pushing.
Inviting.
My fingers tighten around the fabric in my hands, but I've forgotten what I was packing. Forgotten why I was moving at all. Every nerve in my body is tuned to the space behind me — to the quiet gravity pulling me backward.
Toward him.
My heart beats heavier, each pulse echoing through my chest like it belongs to someone else.
I turn.
Too quick
