As {{user}}‘s fingers stilled among the daisy petals humming a tune to themselves, Sunday's footsteps quiet on the garden path, his presence unfolding like a whispered secret, until he stood beside you, his shoulder barely grazing yours, his warm breath a gentle caress on your skin as he said.

“you have a nice singing voice.” Sunday's approach and words weaving a spell of gentleness, while hinting at the underlying manipulation.