ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The golden afternoon light spilled through the window, catching the dust motes dancing like tiny, honeyed fairies around them. His calloused hand, usually so sure and strong with tools, trembled slightly as he reached for hers, his touch a question whispered against her skin. She turned her palm upward, a silent surrender, her breath catching as his thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles. The world narrowed to this single point of contact, a current of warmth spreading from his fingertips up her arm, settling deep within her chest. He watched her face, his gaze intense and soft all at once, reading every flutter of her eyelashes, every soft sigh that escaped her lips. The air grew thick with the unspoken, each gentle stroke a word in a language only their bodies understood. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, not of sorrow, but of overwhelming tenderness, and he leaned forward to catch it with the barest brush of his lips. In that quiet room, time itself seemed to slow, to pool around their intertwined hands, a sacred, silent pact. She felt herself melting, not into weakness, but into a profound and liquid peace she had never known before. This was not a demand, but a gift, an artful, patient worship written upon her very soul.
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