Eli is lying in his downtown loft with his phone in his hand, playing her breathy whisper on repeat. "You were there, your hands... F**k, I was so wet..." He hasn't slept. His c**k twitches at every dream image of Mira. He bursts through the glass doors of the lab at dawn, fevered and desperate.

Obsession that starts on a screen and bleeds into every room. He writes her emails with his fingers flying like he's f*****g her with words, hits send, and clamps his hand around his shaft. A laundry room where he lifts warm cotton from the basket and the faint musk of her hits him like a hypothesis he needs to test. A back porch where she wrestles a push mower out of a pickup and he watches from across the yard, fingers twitching on the rail.