The Time Now 1.8

A door flickers next to me. This time I hesitate. It hums. Warm, alive. Like it's waiting. I step inside, and the air shifts—thicker, charged. The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly I’m aware of my own breathing, too loud in the hush of the room. The space feels charged — like a storm about to break. My skin prickles. My hands tremble. I don’t know if it’s anticipation or fear. Maybe both. Abba stands by the glass wall, watching the city sprawl out like a ghost beneath them. The room is dim, shadows melting into mist. Only their profile catches the faint light. Their voice is quiet when they speak, but it slices through the silence. “You’ve been running.” I swallow. “From what?” Abba turns to me, slowly, like a predator circling prey, but their eyes — their eyes are something else. A wound. A hunger. A longing so deep it makes my chest ache. “From yourself,” they say simply, as if that explains everything. And maybe it does. They move toward me, slow, deliberate. Not touching me. Not yet. Just close enough that the heat of their body brushes against mine. Close enough that my breath stutters and my legs feel weak. “May we?” The whisper is soft — reverent, but also dangerous. Like a prayer offered to the wrong god. My throat is too tight to speak. But my body answers for me. I lean in, drawn like the moth to the flame. Abba's hand comes up, fingers grazing my jaw, tilting my head just slightly, forcing me to meet their gaze. Their eyes search mine, deep and dark, filled with something that terrifies me — because I recognize it. Because it lives in me, too. They trace my cheekbone with their thumb, lingering, soft — and then, without warning, they press harder, enough to leave a mark. The sting makes my breath catch, but I don’t pull away. “You’re so much like me,” they murmur, almost to themselves. They drag their fingers down my throat, slow and light at first, then firmer — enough to make me shiver. My body betrays me, leaning into the touch even as my mind screams to run. Abba lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “You don’t know what you want, do you?” “I…” My voice is raw, uncertain. “I want to understand.” They smile — sharp, dangerous. “No, you don’t. You want to be broken open.” Before I can answer, they step in closer, pressing their body flush against mine, and I feel them — solid, burning, too much. Their mouth hovers just over my ear. “I could shatter you,” they whisper, and there’s a tremble in their voice now — as if they’re confessing their own undoing. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure they can hear it. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. Abba pulls back slightly, eyes searching mine again, as if waiting for something. Permission. Surrender. Or maybe resistance they can tear through. “Come,” they say again — but softer now. Almost gentle. And it feels like falling. I nod, barely — but it’s enough. Their hands slide under my shirt, rough palms against sensitive skin. I gasp at the contact, every nerve ending lit on fire. They map me like a territory they’ve already claimed — and maybe they have. Abba leans in, mouth brushing my jaw, my throat, not quite kissing, just hovering, burning trails into me. “You’re mine,” they whisper, but it’s not a question. And maybe I’ve been theirs all along. I reach for them then, hands finding their waist, their back, clinging to them like they’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart. They groan softly when I touch them, as if I’ve undone something inside them. Their fingers tangle in my clothes, pushing them aside, baring skin to the air between us. I gasp when they bite — not hard enough to break skin, but enough to mark. Enough to claim. My body arches into theirs, chasing the heat, the pain, the need. And still, that voice in my head whispers, danger, danger — but I don’t care. I want to burn. Abba presses me back until I’m against the wall, their body caging mine in. Their mouth finds mine — hard, desperate. And I answer, kissing back like I’m starving for them — because maybe I am. When they pull back, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. “Say it,” Abba whispers, voice raw. “Say you want this.” I swallow, throat tight. “I want you.” Abba lets out a shuddering breath. “Then take me.” And when I do — when I finally give in — it’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s fire and ash and all the broken pieces we can’t name, colliding, burning, becoming something new. And in the fire of it, for a moment, I forget the pain. I forget the fear. All that’s left is us — tangled and burning and alive. Until I turn to ashes.