The scent reached him first—warm, floral, with something darker beneath, like the last note of a favorite song. She bent close, her lips hovering near his ear, close enough for the whisper of her breath to send a pulse through his skin.
For a moment, he expected the next touch, the brush of her hand, the press of her lips. But instead, she lingered just long enough for the scent to wrap around him… and then she stepped back.
The loss of her presence was immediate, sharp. The air between them felt colder, emptier, though her fragrance still clung to it like a fading memory. He turned slightly toward her, as if drawn by that invisible thread, but she only tilted her head, watching him with knowing eyes.
It wasn’t an accident—she had given him just enough to want more. The perfume wasn’t just something she wore—it was part of her touch, part of her way of reaching him without laying a finger on him. And now, even without her near, he could still feel her there.
Some women kiss with their lips. She kissed with the space she left behind.