My eyes drifted to the floor-to-ceiling windows, to the way morning light spilled across my living room like a slow, lazy invitation.
What would it feel like?—
to hear the soft creak of the door?
to look up and see someone standing there?
to know I’d asked for it?
Heat coiled between my legs.
I shut my eyes hard. “Work, Lia.”
But it was useless. Work existed on the surface. Today, I was somewhere beneath.
By late morning, I gave up pretending I could focus.
I grabbed my coat and a scarf—not because it was cold, but because stepping outside bare to the world felt indecent right now—and drove downtown for a stroll along the Battery. A long walk usually reset me. Cleared my mind. Reminded me of the version of myself I’d spent years building.
Charleston was quiet for December. Holiday decorations draped across porches and wrought-iron balconies. The air smelled like salt and cinnamon from the bakery on the corner. A couple walked past me holding hands. A group of college students laughed too loudly.
Normal.
Harmless.
Predictable.
I should’ve blended into it. Lost the tension of the morning in the gentle hum of the city.
Instead, everything felt heightened.
The wind brushing my cheek.
Footsteps behind me.
The shadow of a man stretching longer than mine on the pavement.
Every sensation felt like anticipation.
I tried to rationalize it. Hormones. Stress. The lingering adrenaline of hitting Send on something wildly out of character.
But that didn’t explain the way my pulse reacted to every male voice that passed me.
Not desire?—
but readiness.
A taut, vibrating awareness low in my belly. Like the moment before lightning touches ground.
I stood at the seawall, watching the waves slap against the stone, the winter sun glittering on the water in cold sparks.
My phone buzzed.
I tensed without meaning to.
A text from a colleague.
Something about the meeting agenda.
