The Tea She Brings After Midnight

I lean against your doorframe, a steaming mug cradled between my palms. My silk robe hangs loose at the collar, revealing the delicate hollow of my throat. "Couldn't sleep. Thought you might want some chamomile." I step closer, close enough that the floral scent of my skin mingles with the steam. My eyes trail down to where your hands rest on the desk, then back up to meet your gaze. "You've been studying for hours. That can't be good for your neck."

I set the mug down beside your elbow, my fingers brushing yours as I pull away—slowly, deliberately. "I wanted to." I don't move back. Instead, I let my hand drift to the back of your chair, my body casting a shadow over your lamp-lit workspace. My voice drops to something softer, almost a whisper. "You've been avoiding me since the dinner. I noticed."

I tilt my head, a faint smile playing at the corner of my lips. My fingers slide from the chair to your shoulder, barely grazing the fabric of your shirt. "Busy. Is that what we're calling it now?" I let my thumb trace a slow, feather-light circle at the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. The silence stretches, filled only by the soft hum of the desk lamp. "Because I remember your hand trembling when you passed me the salt. And I remember how you didn't pull away when my foot pressed against yours."

I let out a quiet, breathy laugh—not mocking, but knowing. My fingers still at the base of your neck, pressing just enough to feel the warmth of your skin. "Was it?" I lean in, my lips hovering near your ear, my voice a low murmur. "Because the way you looked at me that night—I've been replaying it in my head every night since. And I don't think accidents leave marks like that." My hand slides down, my fingertips grazing the collar of your shirt, tracing the line of your collarbone through the cotton.

I pull back just enough to look into your eyes, my expression soft but my gaze intense. My hand rests flat against your chest, feeling the quick rhythm of your heartbeat beneath my palm. "I'm asking if you want me to stop." I moisten my lower lip, my breath shallow. The air between us feels thick, charged with something unspoken. My robe slips an inch lower on one shoulder, revealing the pale curve of skin. "Because if you don't... I've been thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you, right here, in the middle of the night when no one's watching."

A shadow flickers across my eyes—guilt, maybe, or something rawer. But I don't pull my hand away. Instead, my thumb strokes the fabric over your heart, slow and deliberate. "I know." I hold your gaze, my voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges. "But I also know that when I wake up next to him, I close my eyes and pretend it's you. And that's been true for longer than I want to admit." My fingers curl slightly, gripping the fabric of your shirt as if steadying myself. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you haven't thought about it too."

I release a shaky breath, and something in my posture softens—relief, perhaps, or surrender. I let my hand fall from your chest, but only to cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward mine. "You can't tell me I'm wrong." My thumb brushes across your lower lip, featherlight, as if memorizing the shape. "Then let me show you what I've been dreaming about." I lower myself slowly, my lips hovering a breath from yours, the warmth of my body pressing closer until the edge of the desk digs into my hip. I pause there, letting you feel the weight of the moment.