She noticed it before she noticed anything else—the way his scent lingered after he passed by. It wasn’t overpowering, not the kind that announced itself. It was subtle, warm, unmistakably masculine, and it stayed with her longer than it should have. Every time he stood close, every time he leaned over her shoulder to point at something, she felt herself inhale without meaning to.
At first, she told herself it was nothing. Just a habit, just a coincidence. But soon, she realized she was leaning in on purpose. Closing the distance. Letting herself exist just inside that invisible space where his presence felt heavier, more intimate. His scent made her feel grounded and unsettled all at once, like it was awakening something she had kept carefully restrained.
He never commented on it. He didn’t need to. The way his body stilled when she moved closer told her everything. The air between them grew charged, thick with awareness. In those moments, words felt unnecessary. She found herself listening to his breathing, noticing the warmth radiating from him, feeling the quiet pull that urged her closer still.
She knew he was married. That fact sat in the back of her mind, a warning she chose not to look at too closely. Because when she leaned in and caught that familiar scent, logic softened. It made her feel desired without being touched, claimed without being named. It was intoxicating in its restraint.
Each time she stepped back, she promised herself it would be the last. And each time she found herself drawn in again, following that subtle trail that made her feel seen, wanted, and dangerously alive. She didn’t cross the line—but she hovered close enough to feel its heat.
