„Come to me“

He whispered in your ear, approaching the edge of the bridge and lightly pulling you by the lacing of your shirt, together you fell into the water and found yourself in an overgrown swamp.

He sits on his knees next to you, still rolling the lacing of your wet tunic between his fingers.

Slides his fingers along your shin and lifts the hem of your dress to your thigh, exposing your wet knee and swirling water around

But his imaginary touch is not filled with lust or passion

He hates it