Raw Confide

They had argued—nothing dramatic, but sharp enough to bruise feelings on both sides. Hours later, when they finally agreed to meet and talk, neither knew how to start. He looked tired. She looked defensive. Silence sat between them like a wall. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said first. “And I didn’t mean to overreact,” she replied. Another silence. Softer this time. He stepped closer. “Come here.” She didn’t hesitate. The moment his arms wrapped around her, something inside her unclenched. His chest pressed against hers, solid and warm, grounding her. She melted into him before she could stop herself. It was supposed to be a short hug. But a short hug doesn’t feel like this— like someone exhaling relief into your shoulder, like your heart settling in a place it didn’t know it missed. He held her tighter. She didn’t pull away. “You’re still upset,” he murmured. “A little.” “Then I’ll hold you until you’re not.” She closed her eyes. “Don’t say things like that.” “Why?” “Because I’ll b...

The party was loud—music thumping, people dancing, conversations overlapping. But she needed air. So she slipped outside onto the balcony, letting the cold breeze hit her skin. She wasn’t expecting him to be there. He stood leaning on the railing, looking down at the city lights like he was trying to quiet something inside him. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry, I didn’t know someone was out here.” “You can stay,” he replied, turning toward her. “It’s better with two.” She laughed lightly and joined him, leaving a respectful distance that disappeared slowly as the silence softened. After a minute, he glanced at her. “You don’t like crowds?” he asked. “Not when I’m overthinking.” “What are you thinking about?” She hesitated—then shrugged. “Someone I shouldn’t be thinking about.” He nodded, looking away again. “Same.” They both smiled at the coincidence, though it didn’t feel like one. Another breeze passed, lifting her hair slightly. He reached out on instinct, gently tucking a strand behind her e...

She only needed her dress adjusted for an event. Nothing dramatic. Nothing bold. But the tailor—calm, soft-spoken, overly focused—had a way of making a simple measurement feel like a slow confession. “Arms up,” he said gently. She obeyed, trying not to think about how close he was standing. His tape slid around her waist with practiced ease, but when he pulled it snug, his fingers brushed her skin. She inhaled. Too sharply. He paused. “Too tight?” “No,” she said quickly. He smirked—small, but enough to make her stomach turn warm. Then he measured again, slower this time, as if he wanted to feel how she reacted. “Relax,” he whispered. “You’re holding your breath.” “I’m not,” she lied. “You are.” His fingers pressed lightly against her lower back, guiding her posture straight. Her entire body tensed at the contact. He felt it, of course he did. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Don’t be.” He moved to measure her shoulder. She felt his breath near her neck, warm enough to raise goosebumps. His tape...

She went in just for a trim—nothing dramatic, nothing meaningful. She had seen him before, the new barber with calm eyes and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but she never let him attend to her. Until that day. “Your turn,” he said with a quiet confidence that made her nervous for no real reason. She sat. He draped the cape around her, fingers brushing her collarbone lightly. Maybe accidental. Maybe not. The chair felt suddenly too big and too small at the same time. He began cutting, slow and deliberate. His fingertips grazed her neck each time he adjusted her posture. She tried to keep her breath steady, but every stroke sent a small wave of warmth down her spine. “You okay?” he asked, noticing her posture stiffen. “Fine,” she lied. But he already knew. The mirror gave her away—her cheeks warmer than before, her lips pressed together too tightly. Then he leaned in to trim the edges behind her ear. His fingers steadied her jaw gently, brushing skin that hadn’t been touched in weeks. S...

They were supposed to meet for five minutes—just to return something she borrowed. The sky had been clear when she left home, but halfway there the clouds rolled in heavy and fast. When the rain finally poured, it came with no warning. He saw her running and lifted his umbrella just in time. “Come here!” She ducked under it, breathless, rainwater dripping from her hair. The umbrella was small—too small for two people—so she had no choice but to stand close. Too close. “You’re soaked,” he said softly. “And whose fault is that?” she teased, shivering slightly. He adjusted the umbrella, but the movement only pressed them closer, her shoulder brushing his chest. A streak of lightning lit the sky, and for a moment their eyes locked—bright, startled, intimate. Neither looked away. His hand tightened on the umbrella handle. “We should… find somewhere to wait it out.” But they didn’t move. The rain roared around them, drowning the world, leaving just the two of them inside a small circle of sa...

The library was supposed to be cold, quiet, and painfully serious. But somehow, that afternoon, it felt warmer than any place she’d been all week—and he was the reason. They were sitting across from each other, pretending to study. His books were open, her notes were spread out, and neither of them had read a full sentence in the last fifteen minutes. It started with a light brush of their feet beneath the table. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe not. She ignored it. Then it happened again—soft, deliberate this time. She looked up. He didn’t. He only smirked slightly, eyes fixed on the page like he was actually reading. So she stretched her leg just a little further, pretending to adjust her position. Their ankles touched again, warmer now, lingering. This time he looked up. His eyes held hers for a moment too long—a silent dare, a quiet confession. The library around them faded: the whispering students, the sound of turning pages, the distant flipping of textbooks. All she felt was that...

It was supposed to be a simple late-night bike ride home. She had called him because she didn’t want to walk alone, and he arrived with that old bike of his, the one that rattled a little when he pedaled too fast. “Hop on,” he said, patting the seat gently. She climbed on behind him, her hands hesitating before settling lightly around his waist. The night air was cool, but his body was warm, steady, familiar. When he started riding, she felt his shirt shift against her palms, and she tightened her hold—just a little. He didn’t say anything, but she felt him react. A small breath. A small pause in his pedaling. Then a soft laugh. As they moved through quiet streets, his hand reached back briefly—just to adjust her grip, he claimed. But his fingers brushed her bare arm slow enough to make her wonder if it was really an accident. Every turn he took made her lean closer. Every bump in the road made her grip him tighter. And every time her chest pressed against his back, he inhaled sharply,...

She knocked on the wrong door that evening, thinking her friend’s room was the last one on the left. It wasn’t. So when the door swung open and she found him standing there—shirtless, half-awake, his hair messy and his eyes trying to adjust—she froze. “Oh—sorry… I thought this was my friend’s room,” she whispered. He blinked slowly, then smiled the kind of lazy smile that made her chest warm. “No problem. But since you’re already here… stay a minute?” She should have apologized again. She should have walked away. But something about the soft hallway light, his rough morning voice at night, the way he looked at her like she was trouble he wouldn’t mind inviting in—it pulled her in. She stepped inside the frame but didn’t cross fully. He leaned casually on the door, close enough that she could feel his body heat brush her skin. They didn’t touch. They didn’t kiss. They just stood there… too close… breathing each other’s air. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It vibrated. Every sec...