She stands close, close enough for you to feel the faint warmth radiating from her. Her eyes hold yours, steady, unhurried. You expect her to lean in, to close the gap like she used to—but she doesn’t. She lingers, her gaze traveling over your face as though memorizing every line. The silence between you is heavy, but not uncomfortable—it’s the kind that hums with anticipation.
When she finally moves, it’s deliberate. Her hand brushes your jaw, tilting your face just enough, and then her lips find yours. Not in a rush, not in a hungry claim—just a slow, careful press that deepens with each heartbeat. You can feel the shape of her breath between the kisses, the way her mouth molds to yours as if time itself has stepped aside to watch.
By the time she pulls away, you have no idea how long it’s been. All you know is that the world feels different now—slower, warmer, and far too quiet without her lips on yours.