The high-tension hum of the feedback loop didn't dissipate; it just settled into the furniture, becoming a permanent part of the room's acoustic signature.
My ears were still ringing, a persistent tinnitus that mirrored the chaotic firing of my synapses. The heavy, pressurized silence of the encounter was gone, replaced by the mundane, rhythmic sounds of reality slowly, painfully reassembling itself.
The transition was brutal.
The slick, wet friction of skin sliding against skin gave way to the dry, static rustle of discarded fabric being dragged across the floor. The ambient temperature of the room seemed to plummet ten degrees in seconds. The sweat coating my chest and back, which had felt like liquid fire moments ago, was now turning into a freezing, clammy film. The air itself tasted sharp, a cocktail of ozone from the system processors and the heavy, undeniable musk of what we had just done to each other.
We dressed each other in a daze of absolute physical depletion.
