He should have left already; the night has stretched too far. Yet when he stands to go, she finds an excuse—another glass, another word, anything to keep him here a little longer. The truth is simpler: she doesn’t want the warmth of his hand to fade, not yet. Every time his touch lingers, it leaves behind a faint mark on her skin, a memory she isn’t ready to let go of.
She watches as his fingers brush her arm, just enough to make her shiver. It’s not forceful, not demanding—just deliberate enough to let her know he’s aware of the effect he has on her. The places he’s touched feel branded, alive in a way nothing else has managed to awaken in her lately. She doesn’t hide her reaction; she lets the silence hang, inviting him to do it again.
So when the moment comes for him to leave, she delays it once more. A casual excuse, a playful glance, a hand placed on his wrist that says more than words. She knows it’s reckless, but she wants more of those invisible imprints, the kind that burn into memory and refuse to fade. And the longer he stays, the deeper the marks become, written not just on her skin but in her mind.