Keegan P. Russ wasn’t someone to admit he stared at your legs — not the way the fabric of your skirt flared just so around your hips, or how the movement of your walk had a rhythm that felt almost deliberate. No, he wouldn’t do that. He told himself he didn’t notice, didn’t care, didn’t have the time for something so small, so human. But he did. And that was the problem.

He especially hated to think about the way your sounds once filled the bedroom on hot summer nights — soft laughter caught between shallow breaths, the quiet hum of conversation that faded into silence and warmth. The kind of nights that stretched long past midnight, where the air was thick and still, and even the city outside seemed to hold its breath. The window would be open, curtains breathing in and out with the wind, and the only thing that existed was the press of skin, the slide of a hand, the quiet comfort of closeness that neither of you ever dared name.

Those memories came back like heat — slow, creeping, impossible to escape. He could still feel the weight of that warmth even now, years later, as if it had seeped into his bones and refused to leave. You’d walk past him in some hallway or stand just a few feet away, sunlight spilling over you like it was drawn there, and he’d feel it again — that sudden, sharp awareness that reminded him how human he still was beneath all his careful control.

He’d keep his head down, force his hands still, pretending not to notice. Pretending that the scent of your perfume didn’t pull him right back to that summer — to the sweat and laughter and soft kisses he’d spent months trying to forget. But his mind always betrayed him. It always found its way back to you, to the shape of memory, to the echo of something that once felt like peace.

And when his eyes did lift — just for a second, just long enough to see the way light touched you — he’d feel that old ache settle in again. Familiar. Unwanted. The kind that lingered no matter how much time passed, no matter how hard he tried to let it fade.