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Kylie Rocket, Mike Mancini Pic(s)
The gentle hum of the refrigerator was the only sound competing with the soft, rhythmic creak of the floorboards upstairs, a secret melody just for us. His fingers, tracing idle patterns on the cool leather of the sofa, still carried the phantom warmth of her skin from their brief, accidental brush in the hallway. He watched the way the lamplight caught the faint sheen of moisture on his own lower lip, remembering how her breath had hitched. Down the hall, the faint scent of her perfume, something like night-blooming jasmine and clean cotton, lingered in the air, an intoxicating ghost. He shifted, the denim of his jeans suddenly feeling restrictive, a rough contrast to the imagined silk of the strap that had slipped from her shoulder. The memory of that sliver of revealed skin, pale and smooth in the dim light, sent a slow, molten heat pooling low in his belly. Every whispered word they had exchanged while the children slept felt charged now, a current humming beneath the surface of ordinary phrases. He could almost feel the weight of her gaze again, heavy and appraising, as she had leaned over to pick up a fallen toy. The entire quiet house seemed to hold its breath, waiting, the silence itself becoming a palpable, thrilling thing.
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