She had told herself once was enough. Curiosity satisfied, temptation resisted, the door firmly closed. But the thing about him was that he didn’t chase—he simply stayed where he was, knowing she would come back. His words were never heavy-handed; they carried the kind of ease that made her feel welcome without invitation. And the more she thought about him, the more she realized it wasn’t just his words—it was the quiet way he looked at her, as if seeing something no one else had bothered to.
The first time she returned, it was under the excuse of returning a book he’d lent her. The second time, it was because she happened to be in the neighborhood. By the third, she stopped pretending she needed a reason. The way he greeted her was always the same—calm, steady, with a faint smile that lingered just long enough to suggest he’d been expecting her. When he leaned against the counter, arms folded, she felt that same pull she’d tried to ignore.
Every visit was a slow unraveling, a careful surrender. She told herself it was harmless, that nothing had changed. But the truth was in the way her hand would linger on his arm when saying goodbye, in the way her voice softened when she spoke to him. She kept returning not because she couldn’t stay away, but because every time she did, she left with something she couldn’t name—something that kept her warm long after she had gone.