She’s standing close, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of soap on her skin. Her hand rests lightly on your arm, fingers barely curling for balance. Then—almost imperceptibly—she shifts her weight forward and rises onto her toes. The movement is unhurried, deliberate, and suddenly her body aligns with yours in a way that steals your breath. There’s no sharp click of heels, no obvious display—just the quiet, private intrusion of warmth into your space.
You feel her chest brush you, feel the subtle arch of her back as if she’s reaching for something only you can give. Her breath grazes your cheek; you can tell she’s not in a rush to come back down. Your mind races with the realization that she knows exactly how close she is, exactly what that pressure does to you.
When she settles back onto her feet, the contact fades, but not the effect. You’re left with the ghost of her shape pressed against you, as if your body refuses to forget. She turns away without a word, but you can feel her smile even from behind.