Behind the Counter

The shop smelled of Nag Champa—her favorite incense. The moment she stepped inside, the familiar scent wrapped around her like a soft shawl, instantly soothing the ache she hadn't realized she was still carrying.

It had only been a few weeks since the breakup, but the memory was still sharp. She'd planned a surprise—fresh sheets, a new down comforter, a quiet gesture of love. No occasion, just a moment to make him feel cherished. She hadn't seen any cars in the driveway and assumed he was at work. There was no need to circle around back; the front was clear. She let herself in, the house silent, just as she expected.

But upstairs, behind the bedroom door, everything changed.

She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Just stood there, frozen, as the scene unfolded—her boyfriend tangled in bed with his best friend's wife. The sheets and comforter slipped from her hands, forgotten. She turned and walked out, her heart hollowed by betrayal.

Since then, she'd returned only once—to collect things she'd left behind. No words were exchanged. It was over.

She wasn't looking for love again. Not yet. But desire? That was different. That was still alive.

And the man behind the counter? He was exactly what she craved: dark, well-muscled, clean-shaven, and radiating a scent that made her knees soften. He looked like temptation carved into flesh. It took every ounce of restraint not to reach out and trace the curve of his forearm, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips.

She wasn't here for healing. She was here for distraction. And he, with that slow-burning smile and eyes that seemed to read her thoughts, might just be the perfect remedy.

She lingered near the counter, fingers grazing the edge of the jar he'd handed her. The blend inside smelled like something ancient and seductive—jasmine, cinnamon, and damiana—each note teasing her senses, each breath pulling her deeper into the moment.

He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "If you want, I can show you how to brew it properly. It's more potent when steeped slowly."

She nodded, unsure of her exact intentions at that moment, whether she was agreeing to tea or something else entirely. "I'd like that."

He gestured toward a small prep area tucked behind a curtain near the back of the shop. "Come on. It'll only take a few minutes."

The space was cozy, dimly lit, with shelves of dried herbs and amber bottles lining the walls. A kettle hissed softly on a burner. He moved with quiet confidence, measuring the blend into a small ceramic pot, his forearms flexing with each motion. She watched him, mesmerized by the ease of his movements, the way his body seemed to hum with restrained energy.

As the tea steeped, he turned to her, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. "You seem... tense," he said, eyes searching hers. "Want to talk about it?"

She hesitated, then exhaled. "I've had a rough few weeks. A breakup. The kind that leaves you questioning everything."

He nodded slowly, not pushing, just listening. "I've been there."

Their eyes locked, and something passed between them—an understanding, a shared ache, and beneath it, a flicker of desire.

She stepped closer, emboldened by the warmth of the tea and the quiet intimacy of the space. "I'm not looking for anything serious," she said, voice low. "But I am looking."

His smile deepened, slow and deliberate. "I think we're on the same page."

The kettle whistled, but neither of them moved. The air between them was thick now, charged. She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist, then trailing up his forearm. His skin was warm and smooth, and the contact sent a jolt through her.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his breath brushing her cheek. "We could finish the tea," he whispered, "or we could forget the tea altogether."

She didn't answer with words. Her hand slid to the back of his neck, drawing him closer. Their lips met—tentative at first, then hungry. The kiss deepened, and the world outside the herb shop faded into nothing.

Their kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, like the first sip of something forbidden. His hands found her waist, steady and warm, grounding her in the moment. She let herself melt into him, the ache of betrayal dissolving into something far more primal—desire, yes, but also reclamation.

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked, voice husky but gentle.

She nodded, brushing her thumb along his jawline. “I want this. Just this.”

They moved together with quiet urgency, navigating the narrow space behind the curtain until they found a rhythm—bodies pressed close, breath mingling, the scent of herbs and incense wrapping around them like a spell. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t hesitant either. It was exactly what she needed: a moment that belonged only to her, free of history, free of expectation.

Afterward, they lay tangled on the small couch tucked behind the counter, the tea long forgotten. He traced lazy circles on her shoulder, and she smiled—a real smile, the kind she hadn’t felt in weeks.

“I should go,” she said softly, not wanting to but knowing she would.

He nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You know where to find me.”

She dressed slowly, savoring the quiet, the warmth, the feeling of being wanted without strings. As she stepped back into the shop, the scent of Nag Champa greeted her again—this time not as a balm, but as a reminder of something new.

She walked out into the daylight, her body humming, her heart lighter. She hadn’t come looking for anything. But she’d found something anyway.