He felt it before he realized it. The subtle shift in air, the faint warmth brushing against his skin, and the almost imperceptible movement that drew her closer. Her lips hovered near his neck, so close that he could feel her breath, warm and teasing, sliding across the surface of his skin. It wasn’t a kiss—not yet—but the nearness was enough to unsettle him, to make him hyper-aware of every nerve ending in that area.
She didn’t lean in fully. She didn’t press, didn’t give in to the temptation herself. She lingered, the slight motion of her lips so precise that it was impossible to ignore yet impossible to interpret as anything but careful teasing. Every tiny exhale, every gentle sway of her head, felt as though it were orchestrated to pull a reaction from him, to draw him into her sphere without a single word spoken.
His pulse quickened. He tried to control it, to act as if nothing were happening, yet the proximity of her lips, the faint warmth, the slow, deliberate hovering, left him on edge. Her eyes met his for just a moment, holding his gaze with quiet assurance, a subtle acknowledgment that she knew exactly how much tension she had built. She wanted him to feel it—to understand that every breath she exhaled against his skin was intentional, every millimeter she lingered was calculated to make him crave her presence.
And then, slowly, almost teasingly, she tilted her head slightly back, leaving the space between them charged with unsaid desire. The brush never became a kiss, but the effect was far greater. He could feel the imprint of her nearness, lingering long after she had stepped back, and he realized that sometimes, the tension of what doesn’t happen—of the hover just shy of touch—can be more powerful than any action she could take.