She felt it before she even saw him—the shift in the air, the quiet intensity that always followed when he was near. Standing by the dimly lit hallway, she tried to steady her breath, but it was already too late.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said softly from behind.
She turned, her pulse quickening. “Maybe I am.”
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. “Why?”
“Because…” she hesitated, her voice dropping, “you make things complicated.”
A faint smile crossed his lips. “Or maybe I make things honest.”
Before she could respond, his hand gently reached for hers. His touch was warm, careful—yet it sent a spark rushing through her, lighting something she couldn’t ignore.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, her fingers curled around his, holding on just as tightly.
“That’s what I mean,” she whispered. “The way you touch me… it’s different.”
He stepped closer, closing the last bit of space between them. His other hand found her waist, steady and sure, drawing her in just enough to make her heart race.
“How?” he asked quietly.
She looked up at him, her breath uneven. “Like you already know me… like you feel everything I’m trying to hide.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then his thumb brushed lightly against her hand, slow and intentional, sending a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just a touch—it was a promise, a question, and an answer all at once.
She leaned in, unable to resist anymore, her voice barely a whisper—
“Don’t stop.”
And as he pulled her closer, she realized… it was never just about the touch.
It was about the way he made her feel.
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