ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The evening sun cast long, golden shadows across the sterile room, but its warmth was nothing compared to the heat radiating from his quiet presence. My fingers, usually so clinical and efficient, trembled slightly as I adjusted his pillow, my knuckles accidentally brushing against the stubble on his jaw. A soft, sharp intake of his breath was the only sound, a language more profound than any words we had ever exchanged. His eyes, dark pools of unspoken gratitude and something deeper, held mine, refusing to let me look away from the raw emotion laid bare within them. I felt my own composure begin to melt, a slow, delicious unraveling of the professional walls I so carefully maintained. The scent of antiseptic was suddenly overpowered by the faint, clean fragrance of his skin, a dizzying aroma that made my head spin. He slowly lifted his hand, his fingers gently tracing the line of my wrist, a touch so feather-light it felt like a secret being whispered directly onto my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild, frantic drumbeat echoing the yearning that tightened in my chest. In that suspended moment, the entire world narrowed to this single point of contact, a silent promise passing between us. A fragile, hopeful smile finally touched my lips, an unspoken answer to the question burning in his gaze.
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