“I can’t stay long,” she said, almost in a whisper, as though reminding herself more than warning him. Her voice had a practiced lightness, but the way she lingered at the door, fingers brushing the frame as though tethered to the space, betrayed her reluctance to leave.
He nodded, trying to respect her words, yet his eyes followed her movements. The room was hushed except for the soft hum of the lamp and the sound of her breathing—slower than it should have been, careful, as if she was measuring every second she remained.
She stepped closer, closing the distance she claimed she didn’t have time for. Her shoulder brushed his arm, light as a feather, but deliberate enough to spark through him like static. He held his breath. She didn’t retreat.
“You really should go,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction. The words were habit, the kind of protest a man makes when he knows he’s already surrendered.
“I know,” she replied, her lips curving faintly, eyes lowered, as if guilty. Yet her body betrayed her. Instead of turning back toward the door, she leaned into him, just enough that the warmth of her side pressed against his. It wasn’t forceful, just present, insistent in its quiet refusal to leave.
Her hand grazed his arm, fingertips trailing along the sleeve of his shirt before settling just above his wrist. The touch was light, exploratory, as though she was testing the edge of what he would allow. He didn’t pull away. In fact, he found himself leaning slightly closer, a subtle betrayal of his own restraint.
“I should be gone by now,” she said again, but the tone had shifted. Her words were thin, flimsy, already unraveling against the silence that wrapped around them.
His pulse quickened, guilt and desire tangled in equal measure. He knew every second she stayed made it harder to let her go. And yet, when she tilted her face toward him, her eyes shimmering with unspoken want, he couldn’t bring himself to insist.
Her knee brushed against his under the table, the contact unmistakable. Still, she didn’t shift back. Instead, she stayed there, locked in that delicate contact, her lips parting as though caught between hesitation and invitation.
“You don’t really want me to leave, do you?” she murmured, her breath close enough that he felt the warmth of it trace along his jaw.
His answer was silence—dangerous, complicit silence. Because in the pause between his words, she understood everything he didn’t dare say.
She had told him she couldn’t stay long. But in the way her hand lingered on his, in the way her body pressed closer instead of moving away, it was clear she wasn’t planning to leave at all.
And he—despite everything he should have done—found himself praying she wouldn’t.