He’d meant to leave. His hand was already halfway to the coat draped over the back of the chair when he noticed her standing there. The doorway wasn’t narrow by design, but the way she placed herself in it made it feel like a wall. One palm rested against the frame, fingers splayed lightly as if she were merely steadying herself, but her stance told another story—her shoulder angled inward, her weight shifted just enough to occupy the space fully.
She didn’t speak at first. Her presence alone was enough to halt him mid-motion. The light from the hall fell across her in a way that drew the edges of her form into sharp relief—the curve of her hip beneath the faded fabric of her dress, the slight forward tilt that made her seem both casual and intentional. Her eyes weren’t on his face. Not yet. They drifted, measuring the space between them, then lingering on his chest as if she could feel the rise and fall of his breath without touching him.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, and though her tone was mild, it carried the weight of a question that didn’t need an answer.
He hesitated. The truth was yes, but in that moment, the truth became complicated. The air between them was charged in a way that made even simple movement feel deliberate. He glanced at the gap to her left—it was there, just enough space to slip by—but her arm shifted subtly, not blocking him outright, but reminding him of the effort it would take to get past her.
Her other hand came up slowly, brushing the frame above her head as if she were stretching, but the motion arched her body forward in a way that made him notice the faint scent of her skin—something warm, like worn linen and faint perfume that had faded into memory. The kind of scent that lingered in a room long after she left.
“You could push past me,” she said, her eyes finally meeting his, “but then you’d have to explain why you’re in such a hurry.” The corner of her mouth curved just slightly—enough to suggest she already knew the answer.
His throat tightened. The doorway felt smaller now, the air heavier. She hadn’t moved an inch, but it was as if every breath he took was measured against hers. And then, she did something small—so small it might have gone unnoticed if he wasn’t already watching her. She shifted her foot, just a fraction closer to his, enough that the fabric of her skirt brushed his shin.
The touch was accidental in appearance, but deliberate in effect. He knew it, and judging by the flicker in her eyes, so did she. For a moment, he considered stepping forward, closing the remaining space, but before he could decide, she tilted her head ever so slightly toward the room behind her.
“Or,” she said softly, “you could stay.”
The choice was his, but somehow, it didn’t feel like it.