Mypervyfamily
Gia Milana, Zeus Pic(s)
The first time I truly understood the meaning of longing was in the heavy summer air of my step-aunt’s house, where the scent of cut grass and distant barbecue clung to everything. He would emerge from the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, his skin gleaming with droplets that caught the late afternoon sun. My gaze, helpless, would trace the powerful lines of his shoulders, the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel, a path my mind desperately wanted to follow. The sheer, casual dominance of his presence in a room made the air feel thick, difficult to breathe. I remember the way his low laugh would vibrate through me, a physical sensation that started deep in my core. My fingers would ache with the phantom memory of what it might feel like to press agat the solid warmth of his chest, to feel the coarse hair under my palm. In the quiet darkness of my room, I would recreate the image of him, the weight of his imagined stare pinning me to the sheets. It was a secret education in desire, taught in stolen glances and the unbearable tension of shared, silent spaces. That unspoken knowledge became a constant, humming current beneath my skin, a private memoir written in heat and pulse.
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