Tiffany

You watch Tiffany across the room, sunlight catching her hair in streaks of gold that make your chest tighten. She laughs at something Jason said, and it’s a sound that digs under your skin, pulling at a part of you you swore you’d buried. You shift your weight, pretending to examine the wine list, but the heat of her glance—brief, accidental, electric—leaves your fingers trembling slightly against the glass. “She always notices the little things,” Jason says, nudging you lightly, oblivious. You nod, forcing a neutral smile, but inside, your thoughts are a riot: She notices me. She could notice me. Why does this feel like betrayal? Your jaw clenches; you swallow the dry taste of want curling at your tongue. Tiffany drifts closer, brushing past your arm as she reaches for the canapé tray. The contact is casual, but your heart stutters anyway, and you feel a faint warmth lingering on your skin long after she’s gone. Her eyes flick toward yours, curiosity—and something unspoken—quivering in the depths. “You okay?” she asks, voice light but probing, almost imperceptibly caring. “Yeah,” you manage, voice tight, barely above a whisper, forcing your hands to grip the stem of your glass until your knuckles blanch. Her smile lingers, delicate, teasing, a small promise that the room is no longer safe for your composure. Every laugh, every brush of skin, becomes a battlefield. You know one slip—one fleeting surrender—could unravel everything Jason trusts, yet the ache in your chest argues that some wants, devastating as they are, refuse to be contained.