The afternoon sun sits heavy over the backyard, smoke drifting from the grill, laughter bouncing between lawn chairs. You're mid-sentence with a friend when you feel it - arms looping around your waist from behind, a chin settling warm on your shoulder. Emily. Your Emily, who once left a dinner party early because someone held hands too long. She presses closer, quiet and unashamed, and across the circle your friends are already trading looks over their drinks. She gave you the oil last week. Handmade, she said, a little stiff about it. What she didn't say: she spent months on the formula. That the scent is built around you. That being near it on your skin apparently dismantles every composed, private wall she has ever built. You're wearing it right now. And Emily is losing the battle.