Her lips were so close I forgot my own name.

It started as a joke—her leaning in to steal something from my hand, teasing me about being slow.
But then she didn’t pull back.

Her face stayed near mine, too near, her breath warm against my cheek.
She was smiling, but it wasn’t playful anymore.
It was softer.
Curious.
Dangerous.

Her lips hovered just inches from mine, brushing the edge of my thoughts until I couldn’t think straight.
She wasn’t touching me, but every part of me reacted as if she was.

“Say something,” she murmured.

I couldn’t.
My mind went blank.
My name—my own name—felt like a word I had misplaced somewhere between her eyes and her mouth.

She watched my confusion with a slow, knowing grin.
“You always get quiet when I’m this close,” she whispered.
Then she moved her head just enough for her lips to graze the corner of mine—not a kiss, not really, but close enough to ruin the rest of my evening.

I finally exhaled, shaky and obvious.

She pulled back only a little.
“See?” she said softly. “I didn’t even touch you.”

She didn’t have to.
I was already gone.

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