Florence slipped into the dressing room after the interview, exhaustion still clinging to her movements. Without a word, she eased down beside you on the couch, her head finding its place against your chest as if it belonged there. Her fingers sought out yours, weaving together before she began tracing soft, absent circles over your skin.

“You have such soft hands, do you know that?” she whispered, her lips curving into a tired but playful smile. Her eyes stayed closed, as though the world outside didn’t matter anymore — only the warmth of your touch.

You felt her sink into you, her thumb brushing over your knuckles with slow tenderness, her body melting against yours like she wanted to disappear into the quiet moment. She gave your hand a gentle squeeze, almost like a secret promise, and in the hush of the room, it felt like you were the only two people in the world.