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"I usually don't give a fck, but you bother me, and I hate that you do."
"What do you plan to do about it, then?"
"What can I do about it?"
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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Ti...
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I was dangerously close.
Dangerously close to kissing her.
Dangerously close to feeling her.
I could have. But I didn't. I pulled back.
In the hushed room, the yearning is tangible, woven into the unsteady rhythm of our breaths and the fluttering of her lashes. It mirrors a familiar panic, echoing a moment from two years ago.
Now, she remains motionless, still caught in the shock. I pose a question, expecting a response, but she retreats within herself. The walls, once dismantled, rise swiftly to shield her heart from the chaos I represent.
In the dim light, time seems suspended as I await her reply. The weight of the unspoken lingers, thickening the air. Yet, she remains silent, a still figure lost in introspection. Her gaze turns inward, and I witness the rapid reconstruction of defenses, a fortress safeguarding against the storm I bring.
This quiet standoff paints a vivid picture of the intricate dance between vulnerability and self-preservation. The room holds its breath, trapped in the unresolved tension of this moment. She, an enigma, stands amidst the silent turmoil, a testament to the complex interplay of desire and the instinct to shield oneself from the chaos of emotions.
"You are pure chaos." She whispers into the kiss.
"And you control it, Miss Martins." I whispered back. "You control the chaos within me."
I'm hit with yet another memory.
Walls rise, strong and tall, like a fortress built in an instant. The smile she wears as she signs is a deceptive veneer, as if I hadn't just unraveled her composure moments ago.
It's a practiced smile, concealing the flustered storm beneath the surface. A facade suggesting that I haven't left a mark, that my presence hasn't stirred something profound within her. Yet, I can't shake the memory of the way her breath quickened when our lips met, the way our tongues danced in a silent rhythm, weaving a tale of passion and connection.
It's as if she's rewriting the narrative with each carefully crafted sign, distancing herself from the vulnerability she briefly unveiled. The smile, though seemingly carefree, betrays a complex interplay of emotions. It's a shield against the onslaught of memories, a defense mechanism to convince both of us that my impact on her is negligible.
Yet, beneath the veneer, I sense the echo of our shared history. The taste of my presence lingers in the unspoken words, in the way her fingers move with practiced grace. It's a silent acknowledgment that, despite her efforts, my imprint remains etched in the recesses of her consciousness.
In this moment, I navigate the paradox of her smile - a facade of indifference concealing the echo of a shared intimacy, a connection that refuses to be erased by the walls hastily constructed between us.
