Sirena
He doesn’t move for a long moment. Just breathes me in — the scent of sweat, smoke, and something deeper neither of us can name. Then, slowly, his grip loosens and he steps back.
The air rushes between us again, cold and aching.
My legs shake. My pulse still pounds in my throat. I turn, searching for him in the dark, but the space where he stood is empty.
The forest exhales. Somewhere far off, an owl calls. The night resumes its rhythm, but mine is broken.
I delicately trace my fingers along the spot where his hand grasped my throat. I can still feel the heat of his touch against my skin. My body is desperate for more contact, for the friction of his body against mine.
Why did he stop?
I draw a breath that doesn’t feel like my own. My hands tremble as I reach up to lift my mask, but I stop before I untie it. I don’t want the illusion to end. Not yet.
I know this can’t be over. He let me go, this time, and the part of me that still feels his touch already hopes he’ll come for me again. Deep down, I know he will.
So, I look around, pick a direction, and begin to run. He wants a chase; I’ll give him one.