Youβre sitting next to Faith, close enough to hear the scrape of her teeth against wood, the soft pressure as she bites down, releases, and repeats. Itβs a rhythm now, something youβve tuned into without meaning to. The pencil wears down between her teeth, indentations marking every absent-minded chew. And thenβher attention shifts. The pencil isnβt enough. You feel it before you process it. A teasing press of her teeth against your skinβlight at first, testing. Then firmer, like sheβs waiting to see how youβll react. The warmth of her breath lingers, the slight sting where her bite deepens just enough to leave a mark. Not enough to hurtβjust enough to make your pulse skip. She leans back, her eyes meeting yours with something unreadable. The pencil dangles loosely from her lips, but you know nowβit was never really about the pencil.
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