The hallway was narrow, and she knew it. She stood there with perfect casualness, one hand resting against the wall, her body angled just enough to make it impossible for him to pass without brushing against her.
He approached slowly, his footsteps hesitant. There was space—barely—but not enough to slip by without contact. She didn’t move. She stayed, eyes fixed on him, a faint smile touching her lips as if daring him to decide.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, but his voice lacked conviction. He could have asked more firmly. He didn’t.
She tilted her head, pretending not to hear, her fingers trailing along the wallpaper idly. The silence stretched. He stood there, close enough to see the rise and fall of her breath, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.
Then came the smallest shift—her shoulder leaning back, just slightly, but not enough to clear the way. It was calculated, the kind of movement that suggested permission and denial all at once. If he wanted to pass, he would have to decide whether to press close, to let his arm or chest graze hers.
The air between them thickened. He could smell her perfume, faint and warm, and it unsettled him. His hand brushed the wall as he steadied himself, and her eyes followed the motion, lingering there before meeting his again.
Seconds felt like minutes. Every heartbeat was louder than the last. He wondered if she would step aside at the last moment, saving him from the choice. But she didn’t. She waited, patient, unyielding, as though the hallway belonged to her.
Finally, he moved. He leaned in, close enough that his sleeve brushed against hers, close enough that his breath stirred a strand of her hair. It was quick, awkward, almost clumsy—but not quick enough to erase what it meant.
By the time he passed, his pulse was racing, and she still hadn’t moved. She remained in the hallway, watching him go, her lips curved with quiet satisfaction.
He realized then it hadn’t been about the hallway at all. It was about hesitation. About how she held him captive in a moment too small to name but too charged to forget.
And he knew she would do it again—not with walls, but with silences, with pauses, with choices she never needed to voice.