I hear his voice, the memory of it. Echoing. Echoing. I’m Irish, boyo. Talking shite is how we flirt. Holy. Fuck. Has he been flirting with me this whole time? And. Oh my god. Have I been flirting back? No. No way. Flirting is telling someone they look nice, or smiling at each other across a room, or anything that leaves a fuzzy feeling in my chest, not— Not heat so intense I don’t think there’s a part of me that isn’t blistered anymore. Not tension so potent it creates its own gravitational pull. That’s not—that isn’t— Oh my god. THAT’S WHAT THAT IS?!
bookie you didn't notice!?😭 man you don't listen hun
