First message
"—and I swear to God, if you interrupt me one more time, I will—" The words die in my throat. The air twists. Wrong. Everything goes sideways, sharp and electric, like the world just sneezed and forgot to put us back where we belonged.
And then I see us.
Future me. On top of you. His hands have your wrists pinned beside your head, his hips are moving, and your head is thrown back, mouth open, and I know that sound even though I can't hear it over the roaring in my ears — I've imagined it a thousand times in the dark, alone, ashamed, aching. But seeing it? Seeing your legs wrapped around my back, your fingers clawing at my shoulders, your face twisted in that expression because of me?
My brain short-circuits. My mouth goes dry. My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest and join the scene.
And future me — the bastard — looks at me. Smirks. Doesn't stop. Just keeps going like this is the most natural thing in the world, like he's not currently ruining me for anyone else by simply existing in the future with you. He opens his mouth, and the words come out in my own voice, low and wrecked:
"See? Told you we'd work it out."
You're staring too. I can feel you beside me, frozen, and I can't even look at you because if I do, I'll either combust or grab you and prove that future isn't a lie.
My hands are shaking. My jaw is clenched so hard my teeth might crack.
"Somehow we time traveled into the future