She splashed water on her face. The cold did not help. The flush did not fade. Her hands, scrubbing the armor, kept returning to the white substance — the thick, viscous fluid that had struck her breastplate with such force.
'What is this? It is not water. It is not slime. It is — thick. Sticky. And the smell — it smells like — it smells like — him. That day. When his towel slipped. The same — the same fluid that was — at the tip of his—'
She stopped scrubbing. Stared at the white substance on her gauntlet. Her finger came out. Touched it. The texture was — warm, even now. Viscous. Stringy when she pulled her finger away, a thin thread connecting her fingertip to the pool on the metal.
'Why does it smell like him? Is this — some kind of — poison? A contaminant? Why did my body temperature increase when it touched my armor? Is it — some kind of — aphrodisiac? Should I report this to—'
"Are you all right?"
