It began so casually, as if she were only leaning closer to be heard. The room wasn’t loud enough to justify it, but she tilted toward him anyway, her shoulder brushing his arm as she angled her body near. Her lips came close enough that he could see the faintest glimmer of moisture when she spoke. But it wasn’t just the words—it was the way her voice changed.
Her tone dropped lower, softer, slipping into a register that felt less like conversation and more like something meant only for him. The sound wrapped around him, intimate and deliberate. Each syllable was drawn out, warmed by her breath as it drifted across the corner of his mouth. He could feel it—soft, invisible, almost a touch in itself.
He didn’t dare move. Any shift might bring their lips into contact, and that possibility stole his breath. Her nearness made his skin tighten, his chest heavy with anticipation. The words she spoke were ordinary, but the delivery was not. Her voice lingered in his ear, her breath ghosting over him, creating a sensation that settled low and deep inside him.
He turned his head slightly, almost involuntarily, and found her eyes waiting. There was no need to explain what she was doing—her gaze told him she knew exactly how close she was, how her voice was changing the air between them. She let silence slip between sentences, stretching it so the weight of her breath carried more than the words themselves.
Even after she leaned back, the imprint of her nearness remained. The warmth at the corner of his mouth, the echo of her low voice, the memory of her breath grazing him—it stayed like a phantom touch. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she had left something with him, not spoken aloud but carried in the hushed intimacy of that lowered voice. And it left him restless, waiting for her to lean in again.