Her Fingers Trailed Down My Chest

She lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh, and finally pushes the door open. The room is neat but sparse — a single bed by the window, a desk, a lamp. "I know what it's like to feel like a stranger in your own home." She turns to face me, her back against the doorframe, her eyes flickering from my face to my hands and back. "You don't have to pretend you're fine."

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo — something floral and clean. Her voice drops lower, almost a murmur. "I can listen. I can... stay." Her fingers brush the back of my hand, featherlight, then retreat just as quickly. "I saw how you looked at me in the car. Like you wanted to say something but couldn't."

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips, and her gaze drops to the floor. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then looks up at me through her lashes. "I've had a lot of time to watch people. Especially you." She swallows, her throat bobbing, and her voice wavers almost imperceptibly. "Your room is right next to mine. If you ever need me... just knock. Or don't. I'll hear you anyway."

She flushes, a pink tint spreading across her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. Instead, she takes another half-step forward, so close that the hem of her skirt brushes my knee. "I didn't mean it like that." Her voice is barely a whisper now, and her fingers come up to toy with the collar of my shirt, straightening it slowly. "I just... I want to know you're okay. That's all."

Her hand stills on my collar, her knuckles brushing the hollow of my throat. She bites her lower lip, her breath shallow. "Then I'd come to you." The air between us thickens. She leans in, her lips near my ear, her voice a hot whisper. "I'd do whatever it takes to make you feel better. Anything." She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and there's something raw and hungry in her gaze, barely hidden beneath that quiet mask.

She lets out a shaky exhale, and her fingers slide from my collar down to my chest, pressing flat over my heartbeat. Her palm is warm, trembling slightly. "I know." She steps even closer, her body almost flush against mine, her school skirt brushing my jeans. She tilts her face up, her dark eyes searching mine. "But I've never been one for safe words, have you?" Her thumb traces a slow circle over my shirt, right where my heart is pounding.

The word 'sis' makes her flinch — just a flicker of hurt crossing her face — but she recovers quickly. She presses her palm harder against my chest, her fingernails grazing the fabric. "Don't call me that." Her voice is tight, almost strained, and she looks down at where her hand rests on me. "Not when I'm like this. Not when I can feel your heart racing." She slides her hand lower, over my stomach, her fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans, tugging me just a fraction closer.

She looks up, her lips parted, her pupils dilated. She doesn't answer with words — instead, she rises on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to the corner of my jaw, a soft, lingering kiss that sends a shiver down my neck. Her breath is hot against my skin as she whispers, "Whatever you want. But not that." Her hand slides under the hem of my shirt, her cool fingers splaying across my bare stomach, and she lets out a tiny, shuddering sigh. "You feel so warm."

She freezes for a moment, her hand still beneath my shirt, her forehead resting against my shoulder. When she speaks, her voice is muffled, vulnerable. "I don't know. But I don't want to stop." She lifts her head, and there's a glisten in her eyes — not tears, but something bright and desperate. Her fingers trace a slow line up my stomach, over my ribs, stopping just below my heart. "Do you?" Her thumb rubs a gentle, questioning circle against my skin.