I push off the wall, already rehearsing the speech in my head.
When I round the corner—I stop dead.
Like a deer in fucking headlights.
She’s standing there like she’s bracing herself for impact.
Hands folded in front of her, fingers twisting together just enough to give her away.
Like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them.
Like she’s trying not to take up too much space in a room that already feels too big.
Soft brown curls brush her shoulders, catching the light from the grimy window behind her.
They look touchable.
Not styled. Not careful. Justthere. Natural.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Big. Brown. Wide with surprise.
And fuck—there’s something about the way she looks at me that hits sideways.
Not coy. Not bold. Just open.Startled.
Like she didn’t expect me. Or maybe she just didn’t expect someone to stare at her like I am.
Unapologetically so.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, a soft pink that stands out against skin that looks warm despite the chill.
And her lips—Christ—naturally pink, slightly parted like she’s about to speak and forgot how words work.
I forget how to breathe.
She’s not thin.
She’s not fragile.
She’s real.
Curved in a way that makes my chest tighten without warning.
Solid in a way that feels grounding and dangerous all at once.
Rounded in a way my hands already understand instinctively—like they’d know exactly where to go, how to fit.
The thought blindsides me.
I don’t think about women like that anymore.
Haven’t in years.
I keep things simple.Contained.
My life is wood and steel and schedules and men who need direction.
