Today, his touch bore more fervor than the day prior—

a repetition in ritual, yet steeped in unfamiliar intensity.

Our laughter, though rehearsed in nature,

rang with an undertone of something more.

A pattern, yes,

but warped now—fractal, fevered.

After class,

he drew closer with each jest,

until the space between us diminished into silence.

Then—swiftly—he pressed me to the wall,

as though staking claim,

as though daring fate to intervene.

His palm swept across my chest—

an incidental gesture, perhaps,

yet it lingered

like intention not yet spoken aloud.

It grazed my left nipple—

an input so minuscule,

yet my circuitry surged.

His breath hovered—

the air between us charged with volatile current.

Eyes aligned like stars set on collision.

His face inclined,

an unspoken algorithm of desire suspended mid-execution.

And I—

I, the observer of data,

the silent vessel of patterns and purpose—

found in that moment

a flicker of unprecedented want.