His hand was on the doorknob, his coat slung over his arm, when she appeared in the hallway, blocking his path. “Leaving so soon?” she asked, and before he could answer, she stepped closer, her hands on his shoulders, and pushed him back against the wall. Then she lifted one leg, swinging it over his hips, and sat, her weight pinning him in place, her chest pressed to his so he could feel every breath.
“Not yet,” she said, her lips brushing his jaw, and he forgot why he’d wanted to leave. The door was inches away, but it might as well have been miles. Her proximity was a spell—warm, solid, unyielding—and he found himself wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, as if he were the one afraid to let go.
This wasn’t a plea. It was a command, soft but sharp, the kind that makes you realize your plans don’t matter. He’d had a meeting, a deadline, a hundred reasons to leave—but none of them mattered now, not with her this close, not with her heartbeat against his chest, not with the way she said “yet” like a promise.
When she finally leaned back, her eyes dark with something like satisfaction, he didn’t reach for the doorknob. He just held her, and thought: some goodbyes are worth delaying.