It's been fresh and vibrant and vivid in Wyatt's mind since he left; not being able to act on it is his problem. Now that he can, despite the risk of getting caught blaring through his head like a foghorn, he can't keep his hands to himself.

His lips close over every square of skin, along his jaw, down his neck, skimming his ear at a whim; his hands press through fabric to feel and map familiar ground all over again. He feels alive again.