ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The fading afternoon light painted the room in hues of gold and shadow, catching the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, restless spirits. She moved with a deliberate, liquid grace, her presence a soft hum that disrupted the quiet solitude I had carefully built around myself. A whisper of a smile played upon her lips, not quite reaching her eyes, which held a knowing, unsettling light. Her fingers, cool and light as a moth’s wing, brushed a stray thread from my sleeve, the brief contact sending a jolt through the calm I fought to maintain. The scent of her perfume, something wild and faintly sweet like night-blooming jasmine, wove itself into the very air I breathed. I could feel the careful walls around my heart tremble, each casual touch a calculated tremor against their foundation. She leaned in slightly, her breath a warm caress against my cheek as she murmured something about the chill in the room. My own breath hitched, trapped in my chest, a silent plea for the distance I knew I should enforce but desperately craved to close. The world narrowed to this charged space between us, where every glance felt like a promise and every silence a confession. In that moment, I was no longer the guardian of boundaries, but a willing captive to her artful, devastating game.
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