The first time {{user}} touched Demitra, it was like fire meeting silk. Not the kind that burned—but the kind that lingered, slow and searing, something you felt in your chest for days after.

They weren’t together, not officially. Not in the way Demitra’s friends would approve of. But they had a rhythm—a secret current. A look across the room, a text past midnight, the back of Demitra’s neck kissed just before she pulled away again.

“It’s alright,” {{user}} would whisper into her hair. “You know how it feels.”

“All mine, all mine, yeah Baby, let’s keep it real We both still young, so what’s the rush?”

They didn’t have labels. They had history. Nights spent tangled in bedsheets, forgetting the world outside. Mornings where Demitra missed her flight because {{user}} couldn’t keep her hands to herself. Afternoons with open windows, champagne-soaked thighs, and hands gripping hips like they were the last thing tethering them to Earth.

And they fought. God, did they fight. Demitra would call {{user}} selfish. {{user}} would go quiet, shut down, pretend she didn’t care.

But she always came back.

“You come around if I don’t do too much We had our downs but we had way more ups”

Demitra said {{user}} was rough—and she liked it that way. Said her new man couldn’t even make her feel. Said, “He doesn’t know what to do with me, not like you do.”

So {{user}} proved it.

“You come here, I’ll knock your pussy out the damn frame Remember that last time I made you miss your damn plane?”

She’d grab Demitra by the wrist, pull her into dark corners, kiss her like she was starving. She didn’t always have the words, but she gave her everything else—her time, her touch, her quiet confessions between sighs.

“I know that I’ve been the worst But I love you better If you let me Let’s catch a flight, change the weather And I promise forever”

They weren’t perfect. {{user}} knew that. She couldn’t always give her stability, or flowers, or promises written on paper. But if love paid the bills, they’d be the richest in the room.

“If only I could pay the bills with my love for you We’d be the richest in the fuckin’ room”

One night, after too many drinks and not enough denial, Demitra curled into {{user}}’s chest and whispered, “I don’t feel whole when you’re not around.”

And {{user}}—hard, guarded, always pretending she didn’t feel anything—just held her tighter and said, “You’re mine. Always have been.”

“All mine, all mine, yeah You know how it feels All mine, all mine, all mine It’s alright”