Tom wasn’t supposed to be there that late.
Not with Evelyn. Not like this.
It started innocent enough — she’d asked him to help fix the ceiling fan in her upstairs bedroom. He was still catching his breath from climbing the ladder when he noticed it… the faint sheen on her collarbone, the tiny beads of sweat tracing the hollow of her neck.
The room wasn’t hot. Not that hot.
She stood close behind him, arms folded, leaning slightly against the doorframe. Her robe was loose, falling just enough to expose the soft curve of her shoulder. Tom tried to focus on the screwdriver in his hand, but every time she shifted, the fabric slipped a little lower.
And then… her breath.
He felt it first, brushing the back of his neck, warm and unsteady. She leaned in, pretending to look at the fan, but her fingers grazed his lower back as if by accident. His body stiffened.
“You okay up there?” she asked, her voice low, soft, and edged with something else.
Tom nodded, but his throat felt tight. “Y-Yeah… just… a few more screws.”
She stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until her shoulder brushed against his hip. That tiny touch — light, casual on the surface — sent a ripple straight through him. He looked down and caught her eyes for the first time.
And that’s when he saw it.
Her forehead glistened. A single drop rolled slowly down her temple, past her cheek, catching in the hollow beneath her jaw. Her chest rose and fell, quicker now, shallow breaths betraying what her words refused to admit.
Tom climbed down the ladder. Slowly. Carefully. Like every inch between them was tightening, pulling them closer whether they wanted it or not.
She didn’t move.
When his feet touched the floor, they were inches apart. Her hand brushed against his as she reached for the screwdriver, fingertips lingering too long to be accidental.
“You’re sweating,” he said, his voice lower than intended.
Evelyn froze for a fraction of a second, lips parted. Then she smiled faintly, eyes dropping before meeting his again. “Am I?” she whispered, wiping her temple with the back of her hand — but missing the tiny bead sliding lower, right between her collarbones.
Tom watched it trace her skin, his breath hitching without meaning to. She caught him staring, and instead of pulling the robe tighter… she let it fall open just enough to expose more of her shoulder.
Neither spoke.
He reached up, almost without thinking, fingertips grazing the damp edge of her jaw, catching the warm sheen of her sweat. Evelyn inhaled sharply, her lips parting, but she didn’t step back.
“You should go,” she whispered.
“I should,” Tom answered, but neither of them moved.
Her hand came up slowly, resting on his chest, palm flat, fingers splayed. He could feel her pulse against his ribs, racing, unsteady — the truth spilling out through every drop on her skin.
Her sweat told the story her mouth never would.
And he was already lost in it.
