"I-I..." Florian stammered, trying to summon any sort of excuse—but nothing came. There was no excuse. Not a logical one. Not even a good lie.
How could he explain that he was suddenly aroused in the middle of a corridor—because of a memory?
A very specific memory involving his mouth, Heinz, and far too much sinful detail for eight in the morning?
'I shouldn't be aroused. I should not be aroused.'
But the heat in his cheeks, the flutter in his chest, the way his legs felt like jelly—it wasn't going away.
'I'm straight. I'm a straight man. I've always been straight—so this... this has to be him.'
It had to be the original Florian—the one whose memories were still fused with his body like old wine in a stained goblet. Because that was the only explanation.
He, the transmigrator, did not enjoy that night. He did not want to remember any of it. Especially not the taste. The sounds. The feeling.
God.
Lucius was still watching him.
