The morning began for me with a kind of northern hush. When I stepped off the small plane and into the quiet Tartu airport terminal, the air smelled of pine and cold stone, and it was deeply quiet. After a week of cities and faces — former students scattered across Europe — I had grown used to greetings that were warm but hurried, voices echoing through train halls or markets. But here, everything seemed composed. My former student Jaanus, a student of dance and art at a local art school, who had taken my Intercultural Communication class, was waiting just past the barrier, strong but graceful, his hands resting on the pockets of his elegant slacks.
“Augie, tere tulemast!” he said ceremoniously with all the importance as befit the moment. “Welcome to Hanseatic Days! I hope you remember me?”
“Of course, I do,” I said. “You made me dance with you at the graduation party and then painted my face when I slept.”
Jaanus smiled. “You were good as a dancer… And then funny.”
“I was thinner, too,” I said, patting the small belly of the academic traveler who eats lots of delicious international food.
“Today’s walk will take care of that,” Jaanus said. “Plus I might make you dance again.”
“I doubt that,” I said, laughing.
“We’ll see,” Jaanus responded with all seriousness.
His car was unexpectedly small for his tall figure but he slid in with ease, and carefully adjusted my safety belt before we took off along a quiet highway towards the city.
Tartu at dawn was half dream, half reality — empty streets, pale light spreading over the red roofs, the faint outline of St. John’s steeple in the mist. The car turned onto a narrow side street where the cobblestones clicked under the tires like a metronome keeping time for an unseen orchestra. When we stopped, the scent of damp stone and birch smoke hung in the air.
Jaanus’s apartment was on the top floor of a narrow 19th-century building with the stairwell polished smooth by a century of footsteps. Inside, his apartment was small and spare but deliberate: books aligned by size on a delicate shelf, a vase with a single dried branch, a square low bed and an elegant dresser. Against one wall stretched a full-length mirror, a barre running across it — its wood worn glossy by repetition. The mirror caught both of us as we entered, two figures reflected in quiet symmetry, mine was, now I could see, a bit more pouchy than I had remembered from the days when Jaanus and I had been in better shape.
“You still rehearse at home?” I asked.
He smiled faintly, setting down my bag. “I, too, must remember how to move.”
It was peaceful resting quietly with Jaanus. In his presence you didn’t need to talk. His silence was comfortable because he filled it with action. He offered me a pillow to put behind my back. He threw a thin blanket over my legs. He smiled—and an Estonian smile meant a lot. He strode to the kitchenette in the corner of his studio and poured us two cups of strong coffee, dark as ink, and cut us four thick slices of moist rummikook, rum cake. We ate in silence, the city outside still suspended in half-light. Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled, and the sound seemed to dissolve into the hum of the morning…
When we stepped back into the street, the air was sharper. We walked toward the square, past shuttered shops and the smell of early baking. The café he chose to stop at for breakfast had wooden beams and steamed windows that blurred the view of Old Town. Inside, the heat was close and fragrant — roasted beans, melted butter, cinnamon. Jaanus ordered kama porridge with berries; I took a humongous eggs and rye toast with a gentler version of coffee. He spoke, almost absently, about the Hanseatic Days, how the guild banners would rise at noon and the riverfront would turn into a small world of trade, music, and reenactments. “I never take money or banking cards with me when I go there,” he said, stirring his porridge, “Or else I buy junk I don’t need.” Then—ah, Estonian humor!—he pulled out a wallet and said: “Ei, ei! I am paying today!” and paid for both of us.
By midmorning the quiet had lifted. The Town Hall Square was awake, and a rich palette of color and sound unfurled quietly. Flags rippled above the rooftops; vendors set out wooden bowls, linen shirts, and belts with huge brass buckles. From somewhere came the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith at work — steady, unhurried. Jaanus stopped to watch, hands in his pockets. “Precision and art,” he said softly. “Same as dance. Same as language.”
The smell of roasting meat drifted through the air, thick and warm, carrying hints of juniper and charcoal. Children in bright folk costumes darted between tables, ribbons trailing from the little girls’ braids like streamers in the wind. From a side alley came the sound of young musicians tuning their flutes and fiddles — a few tentative notes, then laughter as someone missed the key. The day had found its rhythm.
We stood near the fountain of Two Students, watching as the band began to play — a raw, joyous tune that made the cobblestones hum. The fiddler stamped his boot to keep time; an old man joined in with a drum that looked as though it had survived several wars. A girl in a linen dress spun across the square, her shoes kicking up dust that glowed in the afternoon sun.
We didn’t speak much. Jaanus leaned on the rail, his eyes half-closed, letting the music settle somewhere between memory and thought. I watched the people instead — students with wreaths of oak leaves, a group of tourists blinking through their phones, two boys trying to dance and nearly falling over each other. It was all unpolished, spontaneous, alive.
By noon, the bells were ringing again — louder now, answering one another across the river. We crossed a small bridge to the Guild Hall, where long timbered tables stood beneath garlands of dried hops. Inside, the air was thick with roasted pork, sauerkraut, and the sharp tang of yeast. For our Tartu-inspired lunch Jaanus chose herring with potatoes; I took the pork chop, though he teased me for being predictable. Between bites he spoke about his students — teenagers caught between two worlds, half in their screens, half in the northern light. “Sometimes they surprise me,” he said, “in art with one line that doesn’t belong to them yet. And in dance, something they’ve felt they don’t know how to name.”
After lunch Jaanus suggested a walk. The path up Toome Hill wound past the cathedral ruins, where the brittle leaves rustled under our feet. From the top, the city opened in muted color — the Emajõgi Mother River curving like a dull silver horseshoe, the rooftops layered in red and gray. A group of students from Jaanus’s art school with their teacher, a quiet guy with salt-and-pepper hair, sat nearby sketching the view, their sketchbooks propped on their knees. One of them looked up and called, “Tere, Jaanus!” He waved back, and when she showed him her drawing, he offered a wordless correction with a few silent gestures. The exchange was wordless but easy — the quiet shorthand between teacher and pupil.
We lingered at the overlook. Wind moved through the birches, and the sound felt like an echo of the river below. Jaanus spoke about his time as a student here, when the world seemed ready to open. “We thought knowledge would fix everything,” he said, not bitterly, just as a fact. “Now I think it’s the asking that matters.”
Descending the hill, we passed stalls setting up for the guild parade — men hauling wooden barrels, women in wool dresses laying out embroidered cloth. The afternoon light was gentle, and the sound of hammering drifted from every direction, like a city remembering itself.
Later, Jaanus mentioned that some of his friends were gathering at the Raatuse 22 dormitory. “It will be noisy, but way more interesting than the parade,” he warned me with a hint of a smile. I nodded eagerly.
The new dorm building smelled faintly of boiled tea and laundry. Inside, the common room was a clutter of guitars, mismatched chairs, and mugs. A Georgian exchange student was tuning his guitar by the window. “He’s studying linguistics,” Jaanus said, “but he plays as if words were too small.”
The evening began with the host, a funny Estonian girl, giving a heartfelt speech about the international spirit of Tartu. The walls seemed to warm with sound. Someone passed around cups of strong black tea, another offered honey cake from a tin. There were many songs played that evening, but three stood out for me.
The Georgian “Kuchashi Erthel” song spoke about a man wandering looking for his lost love, and catching her scent in the wind, each note from the guitar bending like a sigh. The Croatian “Ružica se bila” pressed against my chest with quiet sorrow — it was a song of a man mourning the girl God had given him and then taken away, every word trembling in the bare warmth of the room. The Ukrainian song whispered of a young man calling his beloved into the forest under the hush of night; the strings seemed to carry the rustle of leaves and the soft thrum of his longing. I watched the students around me, faces lit by lamplight, and realized that each song had folded the whole world into that dorm space, echoing beneath the laughter and murmurs, timeless and intimate.
As dusk approached, we stepped out again. The city had changed costume for evening. Torches flickered in iron brackets on the bridge across the river, and the banners hung like ribbons of fading color. From the embankment came the smell of tar, ale, and roasted nuts. The festival had reached its pulse — laughter, songs, the rhythm of drums carrying down the narrow lanes.
We found a tavern near the bridge, its windows fogged and glowing. Inside, candles burned low, and a band was setting up — violin, drum, accordion. Jaanus ordered herring stew; I tried duck with lingonberries. The talk turned to literature, the endurance of small languages, how nations survive through rhythm rather than power. He spoke of his dance and art again, his voice quiet, even reverent: of the projects he was going to organize with his student, of one student who wants to dance “The Working Class Hero,” another student making astounding art of broken tree twigs and branches…
The band began to play — a slow folk tune, its melody winding like smoke. People swayed in place, not dancing so much as breathing with the music. I thought of how each of my students — João with his fire, Jorge with his voice, Alain with his coffee rituals — carried their own rhythm, their own way of translating life into movement or sound. Jaanus’s rhythm was this: precision as devotion, stillness as expression.
We walked home through mist that softened every edge. The cobblestones gleamed under lamplight; the air smelled faintly of rain and woodsmoke. Jaanus paused at the Town Hall to watch the pale reflection tremble in a puddle… As always, a mere pause spoke volumes with him, and I paused there, too, daring to put my arm around his shoulder.
Back at his apartment, he switched on the single floor lamp beside the mirror. The room glowed with that quiet, yellow intimacy that belongs only to old bulbs and late hours. Undaunted by my presence, he changed into soft pants and a t-shirt—or perhaps did so intentionally, checking out my reaction…
Outside, the rain had begun again, gentle, persistent. The streets shimmered under lamplight, and Tartu exhaled into sleep. I walked to the window once more, watching the ripples spread on the glass. Jaanus approached and stood behind me, almost touching, our reflections in the mirror showing the awakening of something bigger. Then his arm came onto my shoulder, and I felt his breath on my neck. His other arm circled around me and touched my belly button…
***
Rain tapped the window as we stood in front of the mirror in his studio. Jaanus took off my suit jacket and unbuttoned my shirt; the cool air kissed the gentle curve of my pouch belly. I pulled his t-shirt off and exposed his well-defined but winter-pale chest. He knelt, slid my jeans down, then eased my briefs past my thighs; my short, thick cock sprang out, foreskin cloaking the head. Then he let his own soft pants fall, and his long, slim erection bounced upward, arching like a spring birch. We stood naked before the tall mirror in his improvised ballet studio. In the mirror I could see his delicate frame and towering shaft, and then my own small belly rounding above a stout, hooded dick. We stood there, breathing hard.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jaanus said.
“Yes, it is,” I responded. “You like my belly.”
The response was a quiet sigh. With Jaanus you didn’t really need to talk a lot.
Jaanus turned me sideways to the mirror, aligning our bodies so I could see the reflection of his hand exploring the subtle swell of my abdomen, his touch feather-light as he traced the faint line where my skin folded ever so slightly—just enough to catch shadow in the dim light. His fingertips barely brushed the soft curve, like he was reading braille on my skin, learning every millimeter of that tender place I'd always tried to hide. I watched his eyes in the reflection, how they darkened when his palm settled there, not grabbing or possessive but worshipful, like he'd found something sacred. He murmured nothing at first, just watched us both in the glass, his breath warm on my shoulder, the reverence in his silence drawing me deeper into the moment—how his thumb kept circling that same spot like he couldn't help himself, how my stomach rose and fell faster under his attention. My pulse quickened under his palm, and I could feel him hard against my hip, but he wasn't rushing, just learning the weight of me there, the give of my skin under his careful touch like he was memorizing the exact moment I'd stop breathing altogether.
He sank to his knees before me, positioning me sideways still, so the mirror captured every angle of his devotion. The way he sank down wasn't rushed or performative - it was as if gravity itself was pulling him to worship at that tender curve. His mouth found the spot his fingers had memorized, but softer, wetter, those kisses barely there at first, just enough to make the fine hairs rise.
I watched his reflection and saw how his eyes fluttered closed when he pressed deeper, how his whole body shifted closer like he needed to breathe me in. The mirror caught everything - the way his strong hands looked huge spanning my hips, how his thumbs kept rubbing small circles like he was trying to soothe some ache I didn't even know I had.
When he nuzzled that soft fold, actually nuzzled it like a cat, this sound slipped out of me that wasn't quite a moan, wasn't quite a whimper. he'd found this vulnerable place I'd gotten used to covering with baggy shirts and tight belts, and now he was treating it like it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever touched.
He lifted the fat fold—reverently, like he was handling something priceless. His both hands were trembling slightly, making slow circles, and each rotation made the skin grow hotter under his touch. Watching his reflection I saw how his pupils had blown wide, how his lower lip caught between his teeth when the fold slipped slightly in his grip. But it was his cock that really told the story—now thick and heavy it rested heavily against his thigh, twitching every time I made a sound, like my gasps were directly wired to his arousal. Not grabbing himself, not rushing, just letting that hunger build while he focused completely on my soft pouch he'd claimed as his own. The shivers in his hands weren't just from the touch anymore—it was because now je kneaded me like I was precious dough he was learning by heart.
Soon Jaanus leaned in closer, his tongue darting out to circle my navel in lazy, wet spirals, lapping at the sensitive dip with a hunger that belied his silence—those slow, deliberate swirls like he was tasting the salt of my skin and memorizing the exact flavor. The mirror caught how his shoulders curved inward, protective, possessive, as his mouth worked that tender hollow, each lap sending sparks straight to my balls. I watched my own fingers tighten in his hair, not guiding, just anchoring, feeling the soft strands between my knuckles while he nursed at my belly like it could feed him. His free hand kept stroking my thigh in this steady rhythm, thumb brushing the crease where hip meets leg, not quite touching my cock but promising, always promising, while the pull of his mouth created this delicious ache that pooled heavy and hot, making my knees tremble against the mirror's cold glass.
Emboldened, Jaanus flattened his tongue against the fat fold, licking upward in a broad, possessive stroke that left my skin glistening and marked by his heat—like he was claiming territory he'd already mapped with his fingers. He repeated it, slower this time, savoring the texture, the way my soft flesh yielded under the wet pressure, his eyes flicking up to meet mine in the mirror—quiet, tender, a faint smile curving his lips as my body arched instinctively toward him. I watched his reflection and saw how he lingered at the top of that stroke, pressing just enough to feel the give of me, how his smile deepened when my stomach muscles fluttered under his tongue. The intimacy of his fixation was unraveling me thread by thread—this beautiful man on his knees, worshipping the very part I'd spent years hiding, making it sacred with every slow lick.
Rising slightly, he pressed open-mouthed kisses across the entire expanse of my small belly—each one a soft seal of ownership, his lips pulling gently at my skin like he was tasting ripe fruit. He found that fold again and sucked at its edge, not hard, just enough to draw the blood to the surface, to make me feel every nerve ending sing. Then back to my navel, his tongue probing deeper now, swirling inside with those insistent flicks that promised exactly how he'd tongue my cock later—same rhythm, same dedication, same hunger. The mirror caught everything: the flush spreading down my torso like spilled wine, how his shoulders rolled as he moved, that gorgeous cock of his brushing my calf with each shift—heavy and wet at the tip, leaving small marks on my skin. All while this soft hum vibrated through me, this sound of pure contentment like my belly was the only meal he'd ever need.
As his mouth continued its tender assault on my belly, Jaanus's hand drifted lower, wrapping around my dick with that loose, exploratory grip—like he was touching something sacred for the first time, learning the weight and heat of me. Those slow pulls matched his licks perfectly, each stroke of his fist echoing the swirl of his tongue, building this counterpoint where I couldn't tell if the pleasure was pooling in my gut or my balls. The mirror showed how his knuckles looked wrapped around me, how his wrist twisted just so on the upstroke, while his mouth never left my belly—kissing, licking, sometimes just breathing against the wet skin he'd left glistening. He remained there, almost perfectly quiet, yet hot arousal thrummed between us, this steady rhythm saying he could do this forever, just worship me with hand and mouth until I fell apart completely.
Satisfied with his prelude, Jaanus stood, guiding me with firm but gentle hands to turn fully toward the bed—the mirror catching our reflection like we were actors in our own private film. He eased me down onto all fours on the edge of the mattress, my belly hanging softly beneath me for the first time, that vulnerable fold he'd worshipped now exposed and swaying slightly with each breath. His palms smoothed over it one last time, this lingering caress that said he'd be back, before he positioned himself behind me—his chest hair tickling my spine, the thick heat of his cock sliding between my cheeks but not entering yet, just teasing. The mirror showed everything: how my back arched instinctively, how his hands looked spanning my hips, that moment of perfect anticipation when we both went still, breathing each other's air.
Then he leaned forward, his belly pressing against my back, and I felt his cock slide down to find me—hot and thick and insistent, so different from its calm and quiet owner. One of his hot hands stayed on my hip while the other guided himself, that broad head pushing just enough to make me feel the stretch before pulling back, teasing. The mirror caught his face in profile: lips parted, eyes strangely dark, that same reverent focus he'd given my belly now fixed on where we were about to join. His breath came in small puffs against my shoulder as he rocked forward again, deeper this time, filling me so slowly I could feel every inch, my own cock hanging heavy and dripping beneath me while that soft fold he'd kissed swayed with each tiny, gentle what?—not yet a thrust, an exploratory glide.
With a slow, deliberate push, he entered me from behind—and the slow push made me feel every vein, every ridge as he filled me inch by thick inch. His quiet groan vibrated against my neck when he bottomed out, hips flush to mine, that moment of perfect stillness where we were just breathing around each other. Lying forward now, his chest draped over my back like the warmest blanket, I could see us in the mirror—this intimate tangle of limbs and skin, his hand reaching around to cradle my belly possessively.
His thumb found that fold again, stroking it with this tender ownership while he held still inside me, letting us both adjust to how completely he filled me. His other hand glided tentatively over my cock, giving it that soft exploratory tug that made me gasp, my inner muscles clenching around him in response while we stayed frozen in that perfect moment of connection.
Jaanus began to move—those first tender thrusts rocked us like we were one body learning its own rhythm. His weight settled fully along my back, this delicious pressure made me feel small and protected and completely his, every of his exhales puffing warm against my neck. The mirror caught it all in perfect detail: his hips snapping with this gentle precision, my belly quivering under his splayed palm with each sweet impact, that soft fold he'd claimed bouncing just enough to make his breath catch. His blue eyes stayed fixed on that curve like it held the secrets of the universe, silent except for those occasional murmurs—Niin ilus... so beautiful—the Estonian words gurgling with desire. His free hand wrapped around my shaft, stroking my dick in these lazy glides that matched his rhythm perfectly, like he was playing some intimate duet where my pleasure was the melody and his cock inside me was the bassline.
As the rhythm built, his hand on my belly became this living thing—fondling that small fat fold with pinching tugs that made me gasp, followed by soothing rubs that spread heat through my whole torso. Each touch synced perfectly with his deepening strokes: he'd squeeze that soft flesh just as he bottomed out inside me, like he needed to feel me give everywhere at once. The mirror showed this hypnotic dance—his hips rolling in steady waves, my belly quivering under his possessive fingers, that fold he'd claimed getting pinker from his constant attention. His other hand now tugged firmly at my cock's base, that full twisting stroke up to the head that had me seeing stars, drawing this low moan that vibrated through both of us while he kept that perfect rhythm of squeeze and thrust and stroke.
Shifting his hips for leverage, Jaanus angled upward—finding that sweet spot inside me with this unerring precision that made my whole body jolt like electricity. He lay heavier atop me now, this delicious weight pressing me into the mattress while his breath came hot against my ear, steady despite how my inner walls clenched around him. I watched as his eyes devoured the mirror's view of my belly bouncing softly against his palm. That soft fold he'd claimed quivered with each perfect thrust, his hand quickening on my cock to match—those tender pulls becoming more urgent, gliding over my length with this steady rhythm that coiled heat tighter and tighter in my core until I couldn't tell where his pleasure ended and mine began.
The thrusts grew more insistent—his hung length stretching me completely with each deep plunge, hitting places that made sparks dance behind my eyes. Yet through it all his tenderness prevailed, lying so close our sweat-slick bodies moved as one, his hand now worshipping my navel in the reflection—dipping a finger into that small hollow like he was claiming every single inch of me. Minu kallis, he breathed—my dear—this soft Estonian endearment that wrapped around my heart even as his cock split me open. His other hand worked my dick with relentless affection, slick now with my own pre-cum, gliding from root to tip in this perfect rhythm that matched his hips. I could feel him everywhere—inside me, around me, his breath on my neck, his finger in my navel, his fist on my cock—until the whole world narrowed to just this beautiful man making love to every part of me at once.
In the middle of this passionate ride our eyes met in the glass—his quiet gaze locked on mine with such horny passion that made my chest ache even as his hips pistoned faster. The slap of skin echoed softly between us, and his hand pressed flat against my belly now, feeling it tense and release with each mounting wave of pleasure, me quivering under his palm. His grip on my shaft tightened just enough—those short teasing tugs that had my vision blurring, making me clench around him involuntarily while we stayed locked in that mirror gaze, both of us drowning in how completely he'd undone me.
Jaanus's rhythm then faltered into pure urgency, his thrusts going deep and unrelenting as he chased his release. His fingers dug into my fat fold with this possessive love, and the mirror caught everything: my face contorted in this bliss I'd never shown anyone, his gaze completely focused on my quivering tummy—watching how his cock made that soft flesh bounce, how his thumb kept circling the pink skin he'd kissed again and again at the start. His strokes of my cock turned fervent, too, and those urgent tugs pulled me inexorably toward the edge as he kept hitting that spot inside me until I couldn't tell where his pleasure ended and mine began.
With a final, shuddering plunge, Jaanus came inside me—his hot release flooded me deep, pulse after pulse as he collapsed fully atop, that gorgeous cock twitching through every spasm, his whole body shaking, me feeling his rough pubic hair against my ass. His left hand splayed protectively over my belly, as he was spurting inside me. My own climax followed hard—his unyielding strokes of my cock brought me over the edge, he clenched his fist around me hard now, and milked me through my shuddering climax with more of those tugs and glides, now steely hard. Several of my eager spurts coated his fingers and some drops fell on the floor with unexpectedly loud splats.
… Jaanus pulled out slow—this tender withdrawal that had me feeling every inch leave me empty—and helped me stand on shaky legs. He grabbed tissues from the nightstand, wiping our tracks from the floor with this careful attention, like even the mess we'd made deserved his reverence.
In the shower the water ran steaming between us, and I saw him still trembling, that gorgeous cock still jutting forward but bowing lower now, spent and sensitive. We came together under the strong current of the shower—his mouth finding mine in lazy kisses while water sluiced over our skin, his hands mapping my belly again like he couldn't believe it was still there, still his. His dick brushed against my hip occasionally, half-hard and sticky, while we held each other through the aftershocks…
***
The sheet had slipped to our waists sometime after midnight. Jaanus lay on his back, breathing slow and even, when his cock stirred and lifted of its own accord, trembling and climbing, higher and higher, bigger and bigger. I rose on an elbow, careful not to rock the mattress, and studied him like a private exhibit: the shaft thickening from root to crown, the foreskin sliding back just enough to bare the smooth tip, the vein along the underside pulsing faintly against my shadow. Lower, his balls shifted in their loose sac, settling wider as the shaft grew sturdier.
I wet two fingers, reached between my own legs, and pinched my ample fold of foreskin, shaking it in tiny, rapid tremors. The faint quiver traveled through my shaft and pooled behind my balls; I timed it to the beat I saw in his, stealing breaths in shallow sips. When the wave broke, it left me hollow and humming, a dry flutter that rocked me once, twice, then stilled. I wiped my hand on the sheet edge, lay back, and let the sight of him—hard, unaware, beautiful, a dance and art coach, my city guide, my relentless fucker who worshipped my belly—escort me back into sleep.
***
Morning light turned the shower tiles white-gold. We stepped in sideways, suddenly shy—yesterday he’d been my guide, composed and distant, and I an eager student of Tartu’s Hanseatic Days; now we were two naked men sharing tap water and last night’s memories. Steam rose between us while we traded the soap like a peace offering, fingers brushing, eyes flicking anywhere but direct.
I gave in first and pulled him close. Under the spray our mouths met—slow, grateful kisses that tasted of sleep and new honesty. I felt his hard nipples on my chest; my palms slid down to the small of his back and kept going until I felt his softness against me. His dick was almost boy-sized, the shaft lying small and warm against my wrist, very very soft, almost liquidy… I tried to memorize the weight—barely there, yet unmistakably him—and fought the quick jolt of hunger to drop to my knees and feel him swell on my tongue.
He chuckled against my lips, already reaching for the tap. “Airport,” he whispered, regretful. I gave him one last squeeze, let go, and we rinsed in efficient silence, my desire banked but glowing, ready for the next city, next hotel, next lesson.
***
At the airport he smiled this short smile of a serious Estonian high school teacher, and we shook hands like good business partners we were. No extra emotions. But I knew all too well where those fingers that now clutched my arm were last night, and it sent shivers up my spine—like right now, when I again need a break. Excuse me just a few minutes.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
