Wright:
I make it half a block before I realize I’m not breathing right.
Not panicked. Not dizzy.
No—this is worse.
This is the kind of breathing a man does when he’s trying not to turn around and ruin his entire life.
My steps are steady. Too steady. A practiced, deliberate, academically respectable pace down a quiet November sidewalk. Anyone watching would think nothing of me. A man leaving a bar. A man heading home. A man with control.
But inside?
Chaos.
My pulse is still stuck in the moment her mouth opened under mine. My hands still remember the shape of her waist, the warmth of her jaw beneath my fingers. My lips still burn—not from the cold, but from her.
I exhale through my teeth and keep walking.
Cold air slams into my lungs, sharp enough to feel like a warning.
Too muc
