ManoJob
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The rain traced silver veins down the windowpane, blurring the world beyond our secluded booth. His hand, resting beside his coffee cup, shifted almost imperceptibly, his little finger gently brushing against mine. That tiny point of contact sent a current of warmth flooding through my entire arm, a secret language spoken only through our skin. My breath caught in my throat, a silent acknowledgment of the line we were crossing without a single word. The air grew thick with the scent of damp wool and his faint, familiar cologne, a fragrance that now felt dangerously intoxicating. I could feel the frantic rhythm of my own pulse beneath his feather-light touch, a traitorous drumbeat echoing my guilt. His thumb slowly stroked the side of my hand, a tender, deliberate caress that promised both solace and ruin. In that suspended moment, the hum of the café faded into a distant murmur, leaving only the profound quiet of our shared transgression. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down my cheek as I leaned into the devastating comfort of his presence. This was our stolen sanctuary, built not on grand gestures, but on the heartbreaking intimacy of a forbidden touch.
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