The party had grown louder as the night stretched on—glasses clinking, laughter bouncing off the high ceiling, the kind of atmosphere where inhibitions blurred under the glow of warm light and champagne. He stood near the corner, half listening to a story, when she leaned in suddenly, close enough for her breath to slide over his neck.
Her lips brushed against his ear as she whispered something, a comment only meant for him. It didn’t matter what she said—it was the way she said it. The low tone, the intimate volume, the way her mouth lingered dangerously close to his skin. The softness of her breath carried heat, and the faintest graze of her lip made it impossible to mistake for pure accident. His body stiffened, not from discomfort, but from the thrill of knowing she had chosen this moment, in a crowded room, to touch him where no one else could see.
He turned his head slightly, instinct pulling him closer, and for an instant their cheeks brushed. It was fleeting, but her perfume wrapped around him, laced with something floral and sweet. She didn’t retreat immediately. Instead, she hovered there, her lips still near his ear, as though she was savoring the weight of silence, savoring his reaction. He realized then—it wasn’t a slip. She wanted him to feel it. The press of her mouth, the intimacy of her voice, the unspoken promise that her whisper carried more than words.