He’s heard his name countless times before, but never like this. Tonight, it slips from her lips slower, softer, as though she’s savoring the taste of it. The way she stretches the syllables makes the air between them shift—transforming something ordinary into something charged, something laced with meaning he can’t ignore.
It isn’t just a whisper. It’s an invitation. Her voice drops lower, her breath lingering at the edge of his ear, turning his name into something secretive, something not meant for the world outside that room. He feels it as much as he hears it, the vibration running down his spine, stirring places he thought he’d long since tamed. The simple act of her saying his name has become dangerous, deliberate, and far too intimate to dismiss.
When she says it again, even slower, it no longer feels like language—it feels like possession. Each syllable binds him closer, as though she’s marking the moment without ever laying a hand on him. And though he doesn’t answer right away, she doesn’t mind. She knows the silence is proof enough—that the sound of his name on her lips has already undone him in ways he can’t admit out loud.