It started sweet, then it got intense. Honestly, I didn’t mean to tear off your pants. It just happened that when you shifted, not quite meeting my eyes, I found myself in a situation where my underwear became too much, and I accidentally slipped onto you. Just a little.

Here’s how it went: I was trying to shake off the storm that had soaked me, leaving a memory on my skin that made me weak—just a little. I wanted to be out of the rain and dry off.

And then you showed up with a towel.

Before I knew it, I was naked at your kitchen table while you were casually chatting. I wanted to stay there wrapped in just the towel, feet on the edge of the chair, arms around my knees, lost in thought and calm.

But the towel slipped—just a little.

There’s that moment when attraction becomes almost tangible, awkward and electric, where you tense up, lick your lips, hold your breath, and pray no one notices you can’t quite stand up.

I stared at my coffee cup, swallowed so hard I thought it echoed, and waited for the moment to pass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you adjusting yourself under the table.

So it wasn’t my fault you ended up pinned to a chair, lost in my hair, trying to keep a conversation while I spoke to you without words—telling you things that left an imprint on your back and the taste of me on our conversation.

You offered the towel again, and I didn’t really mean to—

But the bruises from your grip on my thighs made me forget it had ever rained.