They say the chest is the first place to lose feeling. But those who say that have never placed their hand over the heart of a woman who’s been waiting too long.
She wore a light cotton blouse, simple, nothing suggestive. But when he helped her into her coat and his hand brushed just beneath her collarbone, she stiffened—ever so slightly. Her breath caught in her throat.
He noticed.
“Cold?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. Her voice came out softer than she intended.
His hand lingered, and though the touch was brief, the memory stayed.
Later that evening, they sat by the fireplace. She leaned forward to grab her tea, and the front of her blouse shifted just enough. His eyes didn’t mean to linger, but they did. And when she sat back, she met his gaze without shame.
“You’re wondering,” she said, lips curved with the trace of a smirk. “If they still feel anything.”
He swallowed. “Maybe.”
She leaned in, just slightly, and whispered, “Touch is the last thing a woman ever loses.”
He didn’t touch her then. But he didn’t need to. The way her chest rose and fell with every slow breath told him everything. It wasn’t just nerves. It was a memory being reawakened—nerve endings that hadn’t been forgotten, only waiting.
They never expect it.
But her chest still felt… everything.