Daisy
Norman’s apartment was exactly what I expected — vast and still and smelling like him, with the city sprawling gold below the windows. He’d barely closed the door before I turned around.
And then there were no more words.
His hands found my face first carefully, like he was checking I was real, and then I was kissing him, and his jacket was hitting the floor, and three years of distance collapsed all at once like it had never existed.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was three years of unfinished arguments and missed calls and dreams I woke up from angry, compressed into something urgent and breathless and completely beyond reason. His hands were in my hair, my fingers curled into his shirt, and the city lights bleeding through the glass behind us.
At some point he pulled back just enough
