The evening air is warm, and she’s standing too long by the fence when he comes outside. His hand brushes hers when he offers a drink, and she doesn’t pull away. Normally she would laugh it off, keep a safe distance, but tonight is different—tonight she knows his wife isn’t home, and the thought alone makes her bolder than she expected.
He speaks softly, almost casual, but his hand stays near hers, his fingers grazing like they’re testing the waters. The thrill of secrecy rushes through her veins. She leans closer, letting his touch linger on her wrist, her pulse racing under his fingertips. The silence of the night, the empty windows, the absence of anyone watching—it all feeds her surrender.
When she finally exhales, it’s not in resistance but in surrender. She doesn’t tell him to stop; instead, she tilts her hand so his fingers wrap fully around hers. It’s reckless, dangerous, and intoxicating. Every second feels like borrowed time, a secret that belongs only to them. And as the night deepens, she knows she will remember the heat of his touch long after the darkness has passed.