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Summary
He’s so hungry it hurts. Carlos’ voice is worsening it. Jannik can nearly taste his words, how warm and alive he is, and his stomach clenches with a sharp pain, forcing an audible whine.
“If I was there,” level, brave, “what would you do?”
Jannik presses the balled-up shirt into the hollow of his gut. He’s shaking with how empty he is. Words tumbling in a desperate slurry, punched out of him: “I would eat all of you.”
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Jannik's out of the French Open. The heat stung. The bloodlust killed.