She tells herself she’s only curious, that her attraction is nothing more than a passing thought. But every time his eyes meet hers, steady and knowing, she feels something stir inside her that she can’t push away. His age doesn’t frighten her—it tempts her. It makes him feel untouchable, a forbidden fruit she’s not supposed to taste. And that impossibility is what makes her lean in closer, step by step.
When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of certainty, the kind that makes her knees soften. He doesn’t rush; he doesn’t need to. She feels guided into his gravity, as though each word he speaks draws her nearer. Her hand lingers on the table, too near his, and she doesn’t move it. She wants the tension, the risk, the sweetness of standing so close to the edge.
And when she finally lets her eyes lower, she knows she has already surrendered. The forbidden isn’t something she wants to resist—it’s what makes every glance, every brush of contact, unbearably intoxicating. With him, even silence feels dangerous, and she can’t help but crave the taste of danger again and again.