Jack had known Linda for years.
She was his neighbor — the kind of woman who waved from across the yard, borrowed sugar, and once brought over pie when his wife passed away.
Tonight, though, was different.
She’d invited him over for a quiet drink. Said she had “something to talk about.” He didn’t think much of it — until he walked into her kitchen and saw her leaning against the counter, barefoot, hair loose, wearing a simple white tank top that clung to her in ways he couldn’t ignore.
Jack tried to keep his eyes on the glass of whiskey she handed him, but his gaze kept drifting. And then he saw it.
The way she tilted her head.
Slow. Subtle. Like an unspoken signal meant for him and him alone. Her eyes lifted at the same time, locking on his, holding just a second too long.
He swallowed, throat dry. “Everything okay?”
She smiled faintly, but her lips didn’t match her eyes. There was something restless there… something she wasn’t saying. She leaned on the counter, elbow propped, and that loose tank slipped just enough to reveal the soft curve of her shoulder.
Jack looked away — but not fast enough. She caught him.
Her head tilted again. Deliberate. This time, she didn’t blink.
It was like slow motion.
Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass, tracing it absently, but her body told a different story — her chest rising faster, breath shallow, eyes never leaving his.
He stepped closer. Not much. Just one half-step.
She didn’t move away.
Her hand came up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, but instead of letting it fall, her fingers lingered at the back of her neck, soft skin glistening faintly under the kitchen light.
Jack’s hand tightened around his glass. He could feel his pulse in his throat.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she said softly, tilting her head yet again — this time exposing the pale line of her throat.
Jack set the glass down. Slowly. Deliberately.
When he looked back at her, she was closer than he remembered. The space between them barely existed now. He could smell the faint sweetness of her perfume, mixed with something warmer — her skin, her heat, her quiet want.
And then, without warning, she brushed past him to reach the cabinet behind. Her shoulder grazed his chest, and for a fraction of a second, she paused there — pressed just slightly, enough for him to feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her tank.
He turned his head. Their eyes met at close range.
Neither moved. Neither spoke.
Her head tilted again. Lower this time. Her lips parted just slightly.
Jack’s breath caught.
Every sound in the kitchen faded except the soft hitch of her breathing. Her fingers hovered inches from his hand on the counter. Then, slowly, deliberately, they touched.
A spark shot straight through him. She didn’t pull away.
“Linda…” he started, but his voice came out hoarse, unsteady.
She shook her head — just barely. “Don’t,” she whispered, breath brushing his cheek.
Her hand slid further, curling over his, warm and soft, fingertips pressing lightly into his skin. He felt her pulse, rapid and uneven.
Jack knew he should step back. He didn’t.
Because the truth was, her head tilt had never been random. Not tonight. Not ever.
And now, standing there with her so close he could count every freckle on her skin, he finally understood — she’d been waiting for him to see it.
And now that he had, there was no going back.
