You pass by, and the air forgets whose lungs it belongs to. A soft rebellion of molecules, slipping under my skin like thieves who only want to leave gifts behind.

Your scent— not perfume, not cologne— but that quiet code the body writes when it’s thinking of desire but pretending it’s not.

Pheromones: those invisible fingerprints pressed lightly against my pulse, asking a question I don’t remember hearing but somehow already answered.

And you… you taste like tiramisu thoughts, layered sweetness built for someone patient enough to peel back every soft secret. Coffee dusk, cream-light dawn, cocoa dusk again— a cycle of flavor that teaches me what a calendar feels like when it’s waiting for the next touch.

There’s a riddle hidden in all this: What melts before it’s warmed, calls without a voice, and lingers like a promise no one dared to speak aloud?

You. Or what your presence does to the quiet machinery in my chest.

Maybe the real mystery isn’t attraction, but how your sweetness found the map to a place I didn’t label, didn’t guard, and didn’t know was starving until scent alone began to feed it.