Demitra didn’t come into my life quietly—she crashed into me like thunder. Soft voice, hard truths, wild hair, and wild heart. I should’ve been scared of how fast I fell, but the moment she said my name, slow and sweet like honey warming on her tongue, I was hers.

“Call out my name when I kiss you so gently…”

And she did.

That first night, her body curled into mine like she belonged there. The lights were low, shadows flickering against her bare skin. She touched me with the kind of care that felt sacred. No rush, no urgency—just mouths brushing, fingers tracing, breath catching.

We made love like we were trying to memorize each other. Like nothing before us ever mattered.

“I almost cut a piece of myself for your life.” I would’ve, if she’d asked. But she never had to. She never took more than I gave willingly. And I gave her everything.

The weeks turned into seasons. Mornings with coffee and kisses. Nights tangled in sheets and soft moans against collarbones. She’d call my name when it mattered most—when she wanted me closer, deeper, slower.

“Call out my name when I need you most…” She always did.

And when things got heavy, when old wounds rose up between us like ghosts, we stayed. We didn’t run. I held her when she cried. She steadied me when I shattered.

One night, under the quiet hum of the moon, she looked at me like I was something holy and whispered, “You’re not just a place I healed in… you’re the place I want to live.”

That night, we didn’t need music or words. Just skin, breath, and the sound of her saying my name over and over again—like it was the only word she wanted to remember.