He thought she was asleep. But when he bent down to gather the laundry—her towel was still warm. Damp at the center. And even before he brought it to his nose, something in his gut turned. It wasn’t the faint floral detergent. It wasn’t the humidity of post-shower steam. It was the scent of a man who wasn’t him. Not just any man. A specific one. A singular, foreign heat. A signature. And as he lifted the towel to his face—his body confirmed what her words never said.

You think you’re in control. You curate your appearance, your replies, your orgasms. You ghost, edge, pause, present. You decide when to be seen, and by whom. You move through the world not as an open body—but as a beautifully controlled interface. But when you’re alone… You crave to be undone. And not in chaos.Not in violence.Not in childish kink. You crave the kind of undoing that feels like a ritual—precise, intelligent, structured. Something so refined, it makes your de