Tell me your zodiac sign and i’ll tell you if we’re fucking

You spot an Asian beauty staring back at you with a look that already knows your sign — and your answer.

You feel the pull of that gaze like something magnetic, something that moves from your chest straight downward. You want to close the distance between you and that mouth, those hands, that body arranged like an open question you desperately need to answer.

You already know the compatibility is irrelevant. You would rearrange every star in the sky just to stay in this moment, locked in, breathing harder, completely certain the universe aligned exactly for this.