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You smell like the dust of the Cascades and the specific, metallic salt of a man who’s been working in the sun for ten hours.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging the denim down just enough to expose the white line of my hip bone.
The bass from the stage two hundred yards away was a rhythmic percussion against my sternum, a steady, physical heartbeat that wasn't my own.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.