In Wiskayok, everyone talks about the Marks.

Some people carry a faint, heart-shaped birthmark on the back of their hand, waiting for a casual handshake at a party to burst into a warm, buzzing electric hum. Others have them on their shoulders, their knuckles, or their jawlines.

You and Natalie have carried strange ones for as long as you can remember.

Nat’s mark is a tiny, pale, crescent-shaped patch of skin sitting right at the base of her throat, just above her collarbone—an intensely vulnerable spot that she constantly hides under zipped-up leather jackets, heavy flannels, or thick silver chains. Yours sits in an equally odd, hyper-specific location: right along the delicate skin on the inside of your left wrist.

For years, the two of you have been inseparable best friends. But in all that time, you have never touched. Not once.

Growing up in her volatile trailer, where physical touch was always paired with a raised voice or a slammed door, Natalie learned to guard her personal space like a fortress. You understood her without her ever having to explain. You never forced a hug, never initiated a high-five, and never bumped her shoulder in the school hallway. You loved her from two feet away, keeping her safe in a world made entirely of words, stolen glances, and quiet, unyielding respect.

Because of that distance, neither of you ever dreamed that the strange marks on your skin were waiting for each other.

It’s late afternoon in Nat’s bedroom. The faint sound of rain taps against the windowpane, and the small room smells faintly of vanilla mist, clove smoke, and damp canvas.

Nat is sitting on the floor with her back against her bedframe, her knees pulled up, sorting through a scattered stack of cassette tapes on the rug. You’re leaning over from the edge of the mattress, reaching down to grab a tape off the floor—a mix of nineties alternative rock you’ve been dying to listen to.

"Hey, hand me that one—" Nat starts, turning her head quickly to look up at you.

She moves too fast. You reach down at the exact same second.

Neither of you has time to pull back.

Your left arm sweeps down just as Natalie leans forward, and the sensitive skin on the inside of your left wrist grazes directly against the pale, exposed crescent mark at the base of her throat.

BZZZT.

It isn't pain. It’s an instantaneous, roaring surge of pure, golden electricity that shoots straight from the point of contact to the very center of your chest. The skin on your wrist bursts into an intense, hyper-focused, heavenly warmth, vibrating like a plucked guitar string.

Natalie flinches, but she doesn't pull away.

A sharp, ragged gasp tore from her throat as the tiny crescent mark above her collarbone flared with a deep, buzzing, electric heat that made her entire body tremble. Her eyes blow wide open—dark, glassy, and filled with absolute, staggering shock.

The cassette tape drops from your fingers, clattering onto the floorboards.

For three agonizing seconds, neither of you moves. Your wrist is still resting lightly against the hollow of her throat, her warm skin buzzing beneath yours like a living, beating heart.

"Jesus..." Nat breathes, her gravelly voice cracking as her hand flies up, her trembling fingers hovering just millimeters above your wrist, terrified that touching you again will blow the room apart.

She stares up at you from the rug, her chest heaving, the usual guarded, unbothered wall she spent a lifetime building completely shattered into dust in less than a second.

"Your... your wrist," Nat stammers, her dark eyes darting frantically from the glowing, tingling birthmark on your arm straight up to your face, her raspy voice dropping into a raw, terrified, and breathless whisper. "It... it tingled. My throat..."

She swallows hard, a hot flush rising to her cheeks as the electric warmth continues to hum beneath her collarbone, her eyes shining with tears of absolute, disbelieving awe.

"It was you?" Nat whispers, her voice trembling so badly she can barely get the words out. "All this time... it was you?"