She tells herself it was only supposed to happen once. The first time felt like a stolen secret, a mistake carried on the edge of a trembling heartbeat. Yet when she meets his gaze again, something unspoken moves between them—an urgency that ignores reason. His eyes linger too long, pulling her closer without a single word, reminding her of the fire she thought she had sworn off. “Not again,” she whispers, but her body betrays her resolve.
There is a strange comfort in the danger. Every glance he gives her feels heavier than words, and every hesitation fuels the craving. She knows he belongs to another, but in the darkened spaces where they steal moments, he belongs only to her. His eyes search her face as if memorizing it, as though he fears this time could be the last. She lets herself be drawn in, not because she wants to repeat the past, but because the pull of his attention is too intoxicating to resist.
In the silence after, she knows the consequences hover close, yet she does not move away. His eyes still hold hers, and she feels more alive in that gaze than she has in years. She says “not again,” but each time those words sound less like refusal and more like invitation. It is not logic that keeps her near him—it is the undeniable way he looks at her, as if she is the only one who still matters.