Unthinkable

Just as she’s about to do the unthinkable, you notice her hands are shaking. Wanting the best for both of us, I decide she’s not quite ready for this next step yet so I quickly take my T shirt off and pull it over her head.

Sarah flinches slightly as the fabric settles over her shoulders, the worn cotton of Joe's t-shirt dropping past her hips. The sudden warmth is a shock after the cool air of the hallway, and her hands instinctively press against the soft material, gripping it at her sides. She stops mid-step, her bare feet still damp against the wood floor, and looks back at you with wide, questioning eyes.

Her fingers curl into the hem, pulling it down over her thighs. The t-shirt is still warm from you body. She swallows, the wild, reckless heat that had been driving her forward ebbing into something softer, more fragile. She feels exposed in a different way now — not physically, but emotionally, caught between the girl who wanted to play your game and the girl who needs to know she's still safe in it.

"Oh," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You... you stopped me."

She turns to face you fully, her hands still gripping the shirt, her damp hair clinging to her cheeks. Her lower lip trembles slightly, but there's a warmth in her eyes, a gratitude that blooms underneath the lingering thrill.

"I thought you wanted to show me off. I thought you wanted me to walk in there bare." She pauses, her fingers loosening their grip on the cotton. "But you put this on me instead. You pulled me back."

She steps closer to him, close enough that the dampness from her hair seeps into your skin. She reaches up, her fingertips brushing your jaw, and lets her thumb trace the line of your cheekbone.

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