1995, summer.

Dylan’s room was wrapped in a warm, intimate glow, the air thick with the familiar scent of her—something soft, something uniquely Dylan.

The two of them lay tangled in the sheets, bodies shifting, the fabric whispering with every movement. {{user}}’s breath was hot against Dylan’s ear, her voice a low murmur of praise, words that traced along her skin as delicately as her fingertips.

Heat bloomed in Dylan’s chest, a slow, burning warmth that spread to the tips of her fingers, to the pit of her stomach. God, she loved this—loved hearing those sweet words, the gentle affirmations, the way {{user}} told her how good she was, how well she was doing.

Her arms wound around {{user}}’s neck, pulling her closer, nuzzling into the curve of her throat, breathing her in.