She leaned in just enough, brushing past him as though it were accidental, but leaving behind something far more dangerous than touch: her scent. The fragrance wasn’t overpowering—it was subtle, warm, the kind that clung without asking permission. It lingered on his collar, invisible yet undeniable, marking him with an intimacy no one else could see. He caught it first, the faint reminder of her closeness, and already his pulse betrayed him.
What unsettled him wasn’t just the perfume—it was the knowledge of what would happen later. Someone else would notice. Someone who had every right to question, every reason to wonder why his shirt carried the trace of another woman’s presence. He pictured the moment: the hesitation at the door, the pause before words formed, the suspicion in her eyes. And all because one woman had leaned close enough to leave her mark where it could not be hidden.
She knew exactly what she was doing. Perfume, after all, was more than fragrance—it was memory, evidence, temptation disguised as accident. And the cruelest part was that he couldn’t explain it away. No excuse would sound innocent. No denial would erase the scent. She had claimed a piece of him without chains, without words, without even staying in the room. By the time he realized it, he was already carrying her with him—into spaces she had never stepped, into conversations she had never joined. That was her power: not in being seen, but in being remembered where she had no right to exist.