He hadn’t seen Claire in years, not since that summer when everything was too close, too hot, and too dangerous to name. When she walked into the café that evening, wearing a silk blouse that clung just enough, he forgot his coffee mid-sip.
Her lips parted slowly—not in surprise, but something closer to invitation. It wasn’t a smile, not yet. Just a breath, hanging between them.
“You look… different,” he managed, his voice suddenly dry.
“Do I?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or do I just look more like the woman you used to imagine in your bed?”
He swallowed. She hadn’t forgotten. And by the way her eyes lingered, neither had he.