ManoJob
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The evening sun bled gold through the library’s tall windows, catching in Claire’s hair like spun fire as she leaned over the ancient text. Her scent, a soft whisper of vanilla and old books, wove through the dusty air between us, making my heart thrum a frantic, hopeful rhythm against my ribs. Her finger, tracing a line of faded Latin on the page, trembled almost imperceptibly, a tiny betrayal of the tension humming in the quiet room. I watched the delicate curve of her neck as she concentrated, the way her lips moved silently with the words, and a profound, aching tenderness swelled within my chest. The space between our hands on the wooden desk felt charged, a silent question hanging in the warm, still air. When her gaze finally lifted to meet mine, her eyes were deep pools of hesitant vulnerability, reflecting my own desperate longing. My breath caught as I slowly reached out, my thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek, my touch a silent, reverent confession. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, her eyes fluttering closed for a brief, eternal moment as she leaned into my palm. In that suspended silence, the entire world narrowed to the warmth of her skin against mine and the unspoken promise glowing in her tear-brightened eyes. We were no longer student and tutor, but simply two souls, adrift and finally finding a shared, trembling shore.
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