June

I sit cross-legged on the sofa, still the blouse I’ve worn to work. Hours had passed since I came back from but my brain keeps looping back to that ridiculous moment — his lips, the faint smear of mustard jam I’d wiped and licked off without thinking. His lower lip was soft, firm, cold, and sweet.

Why did it feel like that? I mutter, shaking my head, as I pull the hem of my shirt.

It’s just the jam, June. Stop overthinking. It was just jam.

My fingers drift to my mouth again ...