Frank wasn’t supposed to be there.
Not at her place.
Not at midnight.
Not after everything that had happened between them years ago.
But when Claire called, her voice low and shaky, asking if he could “just come over for a drink,” he didn’t even think twice.
The door was already open when he arrived. Inside, the lights were dim, and the soft hum of an old jazz record filled the air. Claire was barefoot on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt that barely covered her thighs.
She looked up at him slowly, like she’d been waiting.
“Pour yourself something,” she said, pointing to the half-empty bottle on the table.
Frank nodded, but his hands weren’t steady. It had been years since he’d been this close to her — years since he’d let himself think about the way she laughed, the way she used to press her palm against his chest when she wanted him quiet.
Tonight, though, there was no laughter. Just silence.
He sat across from her, whiskey in hand, pretending not to notice the way her bare legs shifted, the soft slide of skin against leather. And then he saw it — the faintest twitch in her toes.
They curled.
Slowly. Deeply. Like her body was betraying thoughts her lips wouldn’t dare speak.
Frank’s throat tightened. “You okay?”
She nodded, eyes locking on his. “Yeah… just warm,” she whispered, but her voice was unsteady.
He leaned back, trying to play it cool, but he couldn’t look away from her feet. Each time she crossed one leg over the other, her toes curled tighter, knuckles pale against the faint sheen of sweat.
She caught him staring.
Didn’t look away.
Claire set her glass down, leaned forward, and her oversized shirt slipped slightly, exposing the soft line of her collarbone. She tilted her head, lips parting just barely, like she wanted to say something — but didn’t.
Instead, she reached for his glass, fingertips brushing his.
It was like slow motion.
Her skin was warm, soft, electric. Frank froze, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers lingered, curling lightly over his hand.
“Frank…” she murmured, voice low, almost trembling.
He swallowed hard. He could smell her — a mix of perfume, sweat, and something else he remembered from years ago but had tried to forget.
Then it happened.
Her legs stretched out, brushing against his knee, and as her toes grazed his shin, they curled sharply, deep and tight, like her body was screaming what her voice still wouldn’t admit.
He leaned in. Close enough to hear her breathing hitch, close enough to see the damp shine on her lower lip.
“Claire,” he whispered.
Her toes curled again, harder this time.
And that was all the permission he needed.
