One Minute, Eternal Damage [Still Flashback]

One Minute, Eternal Damage [Still Flashback]
The kiss ended too soon. Or maybe it lasted too long. I couldn’t tell. Everything felt blurry.
When his lips pulled back, my breath was still trapped in my chest. My heart was pounding like it had exploded from the inside, and when he leaned away just enough to give me air, still far too close to be safe, I did the only thing my brain could manage.
I covered my face with both hands. Reflex. Stupid. Ridiculous.
I didn’t even know why I did it. But my cheeks were burning, and something inside me, something sharp, stubborn, and always desperate to look unshaken, suddenly melted like butter under the sun. And I hated it.
“Aw, baby,” Reagan’s voice cut through, smug and satisfied. “We’ve kissed before, and you’re still floating.”
My hands stayed over my face. “I swear to God, Reagan—”
“Gretta Domingo. The girl with the ‘touch me and you die’ stare, melting over a one-minute kiss.”
I dropped my hands and gave his shoulder a light punch. “Shut up.”
He laughed, way too pleased with himself. “Hey, don’t hit the guy who just gave you a religious experience.”
“Religious exp—God, you..”
He just laughed again. Reagan’s laugh always carried that low rumble that crawled down my spine. It wasn’t fair, how he could be infuriating and magnetic in the exact same sentence.
I turned away first, trying to salvage what little dignity I had left. But a beat later, I heard his footsteps trailing behind me. He didn’t say a word. Just walked next to me, calm, casual, with his breathing still uneven.
We got back on his bike in silence.
I leaned my forehead lightly against the back of his leather jacket, and this time, he didn’t say a word about it.
The night wind whipped through my hair, the city lights flashing by in quick bursts. But my mind wasn’t moving that fast. It stayed on the hill. On that kiss. On the way he said my name.
And God, how could one kiss make me feel like the world had stopped spinning just to watch it happen?
I tried to breathe evenly, but every inhale just dragged more of Reagan into my lungs. Leather, soap, cologne. A lethal mix for a night already too quiet.
The bike finally rolled to a stop in front of my apartment building.
I hopped off first, awkward again thanks to this cursed skirt. As I tried to walk away, I heard a faint snag.
I glanced down.
Shit.
The hem of my skirt. Caught on the pedal.
I stared at it. Then at Reagan. Who was clearly enjoying this.
“This is such a good metaphor,” he said, grinning like a devil. “Your skirt refusing to let go of my bike.”
I gave him a flat look. “Don’t start.”
“Unrequited love,” he went on dramatically, hand over his chest. “Or maybe… it’s really you who can’t walk away from me.”
I hissed through my teeth. “I’m getting scissors.”
“I can help,” he offered, already crouching down, his hands far more practiced in trouble than in fabric.
My eyes rolled before I even realized it. “If this is your plan to steal my clothes, there are easier ways, Reagan.”
He looked up at me from under his lashes, grinning. “I’d rather strip them off you myself, baby.”
I groaned.
The skirt finally came free. He stood, and we ended up face-to-face again. For a few seconds too long.
Then I cleared my throat, spun around, and headed for the entrance.
“Good night, Miss Domingo. Sweet dreams. About me, of course.”
I didn’t turn back. But damn it… my cheeks were burning again.
:::
I woke up because the world started shaking. Okay… not the world but .. my bed.
My phone was buzzing like a vengeful little demon under my pillow, furious that I’d ignored it too long. With one lazy swipe, I dragged it out. The screen lit up so bright I had to blink hard.
20 missed calls. 
From: Mama.
Shit.
I answered before the next mini earthquake hit. 
“Hello…?”
“GRETA DOMINGO!”
I yanked the phone away, because it was a live grenade, but my eardrums were already casualties.
“It’s eleven in the morning! I called twenty times! Are you dead?! Kidnapped?! Or, God forbid, did you run off with some criminal I can’t track down?!”
I squinted, still asleep. Mama’s voice in the morning was straight out of a third-rate telenovela, complete with hysteria, threats, and conspiracy theories.
“I… overslept, Mom.”
“Overslept? You know who oversleeps, Gretta? Failures. People who end up working in a bakery in a green apron, living with seven cats and a mountain of credit card debt!”
I groaned and flopped onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow.
“And don’t tell me you haven’t breakfast yet. Do you think your brain will grow on coffee and last night’s sins?!”
I shut my eyes. Last night’s sins.
Reagan Milano.
Damn it.
“I’m serious, mija. If you keep this up. Sleeping all day, dragging yourself home at night, dark circles like a raccoon that just raided the neighbor’s chicken coop, how will you ever get a husband? How will you ever have a future? When your Papa and I are dead and buried, you’ll still be asleep!”
I didn’t answer. Too busy facing the brutal reality: I’d actually gone to bed at four this morning. Or more accurately, I’d tossed and turned, cursing Reagan in every language I knew. And every curse just turned into flashes of his lips. His hands. The way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
“Ma, I’m in college, not shopping for a husband,” I finally said, exhausted.
“What’s the difference! You think there are quality men on that campus? Look around! They all wear hoodies and haven’t washed their hair in three days! Unless you pray every day and wear blood-red lipstick, even God would give up on you.”
I sighed. “I’m tired. Can we please do this tonight?”
“Tonight? By tonight I’ll be dead from a stroke!” Her pitch shot up an octave. “And if I die, you know who’s not invited to the funeral? YOU! My ungrateful daughter who never answers her phone and never wakes up before the rooster crows!”
I stayed silent. Eyes closed. Fingers rubbing my temple.
Finally, after a monologue involving death, poverty, failed marriages, and a lifetime as a spinster living with five Chihuahuas, she wrapped it up with one last threat:
“I’ll be praying the Rosary tonight. And if you’re still sleeping in tomorrow, I swear I’ll fly to New York, drag you to church, and force you into Mass for seven days straight.”
Click.
Call ended.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then rolled over, curled up, pulled the blanket over my head.
Useless. Completely useless. Because five seconds later, Reagan Milano’s face waltzed right back into my brain.
His eyes. His smile.
His voice when he said, “Sweet dreams. About me, obviously.”
Damn it.
I wasn’t getting another hour of sleep today. And maybe… just maybe… I was already in way deeper trouble than just oversleeping.