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Leah Winters, Dante Colle Pic(s)
The door swung inward on silent hinges, revealing not the empty storage closet she expected but a dimly lit chamber where a man stood half-turned from her, his form silhouetted agat the warm glow of a single lamp. Her breath caught, not in fear, but at the unexpected intimacy of the scene; the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and clean linen, a stark contrast to the sterile hallway she had just left. He turned slowly, and his eyes, dark and wide with equal surprise, locked with hers, holding a question that seemed to vibrate in the quiet space between them. The fine fabric of his shirt clung to the defined planes of his shoulders, and she watched, mesmerized, as the muscle in his jaw tightened then relaxed. A single, errant strand of her hair brushed agat her cheek, and she saw his gaze drop to follow its path, a silent acknowledgment of the sudden, palpable tension. The world outside the door ceased to exist, reduced to the soft sound of their breathing and the frantic drum of her own pulse in her ears. Without a word, he took a single step forward, closing the distance just enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from his body, an unspoken invitation hanging in the air. Her skin prickled with awareness, every sense heightened to the subtle shift in the atmosphere, to the possibility of a touch not yet made. In that suspended moment, the line between a simple error and a deliberate crossing blurred into irrelevance, leaving only the electric promise of what might happen next.
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