Was it possible?
That vision—that overwhelming, vivid vision—it wasn't just a dream or a delusion.
It was real.
Florian had felt everything. The heat, the touch, the way his body had responded...even the pleasure had been so sharp, so overwhelming, that he'd arched into it like it was actually happening.
And as much as Florian wanted to dismiss it—to write it off as some twisted fantasy of the original Florian—it wasn't.
It couldn't be.
But how? Why? What happened?
It hadn't felt like some passive memory either. It was as though he had relived it—inhabited a moment that wasn't supposed to be his. And yet his body remembered it, responded to it, ached from it.
The pieces were disjointed, scattered—but slowly, they were beginning to come together.
Heinz had been drunk. In that vision, too. Slurring, flushed, and so desperately affectionate. Was that it? Did he only show that side of himself when intoxicated? Was that the truth of him?
