Tom hadn’t seen Evelyn in years — not since she moved away after her divorce. But tonight, there she was, standing in his living room, holding a half-empty glass of Merlot, laughing softly at one of his terrible jokes.
They’d run into each other earlier that day at the farmer’s market, both pretending to be surprised, both knowing damn well they’d been stealing glances for decades. He invited her over “just to catch up,” but deep down, neither of them believed it would stay that innocent.
By the time the second bottle was open, the conversation had shifted from old friends and bad knees to quieter, heavier things — nights alone, regrets, the strange ache that comes when the house is too quiet for too long.
Evelyn’s eyes glimmered in the low lamp light. Her lipstick had faded, but somehow her lips looked fuller, softer, like they were made for secrets. She brushed her hair behind her ear, leaning back against the couch, crossing one leg slowly over the other.
Tom tried to keep his eyes on hers, but the way her skirt slid just a little higher with that movement didn’t make it easy.
“I should probably get going,” she said finally, her voice smooth, unhurried. “It’s late.”
But she didn’t stand up.
When she did, eventually, she moved deliberately, slowly slipping into her coat. Her hands paused at the buttons. She glanced at him, smiling faintly.
And then it happened.
The coat slid off her left shoulder — smooth, unhurried, deliberate. The soft curve of her skin caught the light, pale and inviting. She didn’t fix it. She didn’t have to.
Tom swallowed hard. “Your coat’s… slipping,” he said, his voice lower than he intended.
“I know,” she replied softly, tilting her head. “Maybe I don’t really want to leave.”
It was enough to break the thin line of restraint he’d been holding all night. He stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume — warm, faintly floral, mixed with the edge of red wine.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him, her lips parting just slightly, her breath warm against his chest. “Then maybe you should give me a reason to stay.”
He didn’t need more invitation than that.
The first kiss was hesitant for all of three seconds before years of unspoken tension took over. Her lips were soft, slow at first, then urgent, pressing back against his like she’d been starving for it.
Evelyn’s hands slipped under his shirt, fingertips grazing his skin, leaving a trail of heat behind. She whispered his name against his mouth, breathless, needy, her coat finally falling to the floor completely.
“You kept me waiting long enough,” she murmured, almost a laugh, tugging him down onto the couch.
Time blurred after that.
Her blouse loosened under his hands; his shirt ended up somewhere near the lamp. Every touch, every sigh, every quiet sound between them carried the weight of years wasted — and the wild rush of finally not wasting another second.
She kissed his jaw, his neck, her breath hot against his ear. “God, I used to dream about this,” she confessed softly, her voice shaking just enough to make him ache more.
Tom’s laugh was low, rough. “I used to dream about a lot more than this,” he said, and the way she smiled at that told him she wanted exactly the same things.
Evelyn moved over him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, her nails grazing his shoulders, her breath uneven, caught somewhere between laughter and moans. Her hair tumbled forward, brushing his face, and he closed his eyes, drinking in everything — her warmth, her scent, her soft, ragged sounds.
For a while, the room was silent except for their breathing, the creak of the couch, and the soft hum of the old ceiling fan overhead.
Later, she lay curled against his chest, her skin flushed, her breath still uneven. Tom stroked her hair, his hand slow, steady, lingering.
Evelyn smiled faintly without opening her eyes. “I really did plan to leave,” she whispered.
Tom chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And yet your coat slipped.”
She opened one eye, her lips curving into that wicked, knowing smile he remembered from when they were young. “Yeah,” she said softly, dragging a finger lazily down his chest, “on purpose.”