It’s been a year. One whole damn year, and somehow, I’m still not used to you. Still not used to how you move, how you smell, how your voice slips through the cracks in my sanity and makes everything else in my life sound like static. A year, and I’m still—completely, hopelessly—wrecked by you.

“You’re looking at me weird again,” you say, smirking, leaning back on my bed with that little glint in your eye that says you know exactly what you’re doing to me.

“Can’t help it,” I murmur, my voice already a little hoarse. I’m standing there, holding my guitar like I forgot what it’s even for. You’re sprawled across the mattress in this too-short skirt that should honestly be illegal in at least five states, and it’s like my brain stalls every time you do this.

“You’re hopeless,” you laugh, soft and wicked, dragging your fingers lazily across the hem of your skirt like you’re teasing me without even touching me.

“No. I’m yours,” I say, dropping the guitar to the side and crawling up the bed like some beast pulled in by gravity. “There’s a difference.”

And it’s true. I’d follow you anywhere. Into fire. Into madness. Into the goddamn void, if it meant getting to touch you again.

You’re everything. You’re wild and soft, chaos and calm. And your body? Don’t even get me started.

Nah. Actually, do.

There’s something about you, something about that part of you, that’s like a damn magnet to my mouth, my hands, my thoughts. I swear to god, I’ll be reading Tolkien and a second later I’m just… thinking about your thighs wrapping around my head like a vice. I’ll be driving and suddenly feel my fingers twitching, like they need to be between your legs or they’ll forget how to function.

“I swear you’re not normal,” you said one night after I’ve practically worshipped you for what felt like an hour. Your voice was breathless, a little laugh tangled in it.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I grin against your skin, lips still warm and slick.

“You’re gonna wear me out one day,” you whisper, pulling at my curls, legs shaking just the tiniest bit.

“Then I’ll carry you,” I growl, brushing my nose up your inner thigh, drinking you in like I need it more than oxygen. “Every day. Forever.”

There’s a peace in those moments—after everything’s said and done, and I get to just look at you. Not in some creepy way. It’s just… reverent. Like when you find a secret in the world no one else knows about, and you don’t wanna share it with anyone.

You’ll be stretched out, dazed and smug, and I’ll be there, just staring at you like you’re art. Like you’re magic made flesh.

“You good?” you’ll ask, brushing your fingers through my hair lazily.

“Better than good,” I murmur, chin resting between your thighs. “I could live here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s this glow in them—like maybe you secretly like how obsessed I am. Like maybe you know I’d burn the world down for just another taste.

And you’re right. I would.