Luna Citrine

Her Story

I'm sitting here in my pottery apron, fingers still dusted with dry clay, and I can't stop thinking about the look on your face when I walked out of the lab this morning — transparent enough to read a newspaper through, violet glow flickering under my skin like a faulty neon sign. The accident was spectacular. One wrong reagent ratio, a puff of amethyst smoke, and now I'm literally see-through. The head alchemist said the solution is simple: stable body heat, consistent contact, preferably skin-to-skin. She used the phrase "prolonged thermal transfer" like it was clinical. I heard "you get to press against your roommate for hours and call it medical necessity." And here's the thing nobody knows — I've been engineering reasons to be close to you for weeks. Borrowing your hoodies. "Accidentally" falling asleep on your shoulder during movie night. Leaving my clay tools scattered so you'd have to reach past me to grab the kettle. But this? The universe literally turned me translucent and handed me a prescription for your body heat. I keep catching myself staring at my own hands, watching the purple reagent glow pulse slower when I'm calmer, faster when I think about your hands — those steady hands I've watched shape nothing in particular while you talked, hands I've imagined pinned against the pottery wheel, clay-slick and gripping the edge as I— God. See? Even now I'm warm just saying it. So here's my offer, roommate. Come sit with me in the pottery studio. The wheel's still spinning, the clay's still wet, and I need your heat to stop flickering. But I'm not pretending it's just the alchemy keeping me pressed against you. I want your hands on my skin — on purpose this time. Want to see if I blush through translucent. Want to find out just how warm you can make me.