“Pride. The scent por butch, pour femme, pour non-binaire.”
It stank like bed-sweat, months after requiring a change of sheets, but with a gentle lilt of ripe apples after a summer rain. The tart musk hit like a curse, but the immediate familiarity of it pulled him in deeper. He inhaled desperately to keep chasing that soft bitter-sweetness beneath, as though burying his face into the pillow of a departed lover.