"Sometimes, the most intimate touches are the ones you never see coming."
The morning after felt like a dream suspended between dawn and daylight — too fragile to hold, too vivid to forget.
I woke with my wrist tingling, still aching from the ghost of his kiss.
Kieran.
His name floated in my mind like a secret waiting to be spoken aloud.
I curled into the quiet of my small apartment, sunlight folding over my sheets in thin gold ribbons, and for the first time in a long while, I didn't want to pull away from the silence.
The city outside was waking with soft sounds.
Birds flurried between the trees, and distant traffic hummed like a pulse.
But inside, my skin still hummed from that touch — barely there, yet searing.
The way he had traced my palm with his thumb before kissing my wrist — slow, deliberate — made my breath hitch.
It was a question without words.
A promise.
A challenge.
I replayed it over and over.
How his eyes never left mine.
How the world had shrunk to just the space between us.
How the air had thickened, heavy with a language only skin and breath could speak.
I was left wondering if he'd felt it too — that shiver that traveled from my wrist up my arm, settling behind my ribs like a secret flame.
Later that day, I wandered the streets, trying to push him from my mind.
It was impossible.
Every stranger's glance felt like a whisper of him.
Every brush of wind, a caress.
Every shadow between buildings, a memory of his touch.
By evening, I found myself at the café again.
Not because I was brave.
Because I was pulled.
Because the memory of his gaze was an ache that demanded to be faced.
The room was darker now.
Rain had started again, tapping a gentle rhythm on the windows.
The familiar mix of coffee, wet leather, and old paper wrapped around me like a cloak.
I chose a table by the window, tracing the droplets as they slid slowly down the glass.
My journal was open, but the words didn't come.
Instead, I wrote only fragments:
A touch without contact,
a kiss without lips,
a fire that burns beneath skin.
I was lost in the quiet when the chair opposite me scraped softly against the floor.
I looked up.
There he was.
Kieran.
He sat without hesitation, hands folded over a cup of black coffee.
His eyes held the same intense calm I remembered, but there was something softer now — like the tension had folded into warmth.
"Why do you keep coming here?"
I asked, my voice barely more than a breath.
He smiled, shadows playing over his sharp cheekbones.
"To see if you'd return the fire."
A shiver ran down my spine.
He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Because the best flames are the ones that almost burn you."
Our fingers brushed as he reached for his cup.
Just a flicker of contact — but enough to set my skin alight.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady the rapid beat of my heart.
"Do you ever wonder why we're drawn to things that hurt us?"
He studied me a moment before answering.
"Because sometimes, pain is the only way to know we're alive."
We talked then, words flowing like soft smoke.
About the city's secret corners, the art tucked in forgotten alleys, the loneliness hiding in crowds.
His voice was a low melody, pulling me deeper with every syllable.
Hours passed unnoticed.
Until the café emptied, leaving only the two of us, the rain, and the soft hum of music.
When he finally stood to leave, his eyes held mine long enough to make my pulse skip.
"Meet me tomorrow,"
he said.
"At midnight."
I nodded, unable to find my voice.
And as he disappeared into the rainy night, I felt the pull of a story just beginning — a story written in glances, whispered touches, and a fire neither of us could resist.
That night, sleep was elusive.
My dreams blurred between memory and desire.
I saw his lips tracing patterns on my skin, his hands mapping constellations along my spine.
I felt his breath hot against my ear as he whispered words I couldn't quite catch.
When my phone buzzed just before dawn, my heart jumped. A message. From an unknown number.
I stared at the screen, breath catching. How had he gotten my number?
But I didn't ask.
Because some mysteries burn brighter unanswered.
"You asked for fire. I'll show you how it burns."
My fingers trembled as I typed back:
"I'm ready."