It happened so casually that Ethan almost missed it.
At the end of another long day at the office, the kind where the air feels heavy and every small sound echoes, Sophie walked past his desk. Her perfume lingered before she did—something soft, clean, like warm linen and skin. She paused beside him, looking over the spreadsheet on his screen, pretending to read numbers she clearly didn’t care about.
Then came the touch.
Her hand rested gently on his shoulder—light, unhurried, but deliberate. Not the kind of touch coworkers used to get someone’s attention. This was different. Her fingers pressed just enough to make him aware of her warmth, her presence, her pulse.
Ethan froze for a split second. The room didn’t change, but something inside him did. He could feel the imprint of her hand even after she moved away, like a ghost of something he wanted but didn’t dare to name.
Sophie walked to the coffee machine, her heels clicking in rhythm, her skirt swaying slightly with each step. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.
That’s what made her so dangerous.
Later that week, at the company dinner, the same touch returned. This time, she came up behind him, leaning close enough for her breath to brush his neck as she whispered something about the seating chart. Her hand found his shoulder again, resting there—just for a moment longer than necessary. Her thumb made a slow, unconscious circle before pulling away.
It wasn’t an accident.
She smiled faintly when their eyes met, like she knew exactly what that simple gesture did to him. Ethan tried to hide it, but his voice betrayed him—lower, rougher, unsteady.
All night, he felt it. The tension. The unspoken thing between them. Every time she leaned forward to speak to someone else, he could see the soft line of her collarbone, the gentle rise of her shoulder, and his mind went straight back to that touch—how it had felt, how it had lingered.
Sophie was married. Everyone in the office knew that. But Ethan noticed the way she sometimes twisted her ring absentmindedly when she talked to him, the subtle conflict behind her calm smile.
That was what made it worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide.
By the time the dinner ended, they found themselves walking to their cars side by side. The night air was cool, quiet. For once, there were no witnesses.
She stopped near her car, turned to face him, and for a heartbeat they just stood there, saying nothing. Then, softly, almost as if testing a boundary, she reached out again—her fingertips landing on his shoulder.
A gentle squeeze. Familiar. Dangerous.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. “You always look like you’re carrying too much tension,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ethan let out a small, nervous laugh, the kind that hides everything real. “Maybe I am.”
“Then you should let someone help with that,” she said.
And before he could respond, she let go, slid into her car, and drove off—leaving him with nothing but the warmth of her touch fading from his skin.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the empty parking spot, the night pressing close around him.
Some touches are innocent.
Some are invitations.
And some—like Sophie’s—carry a meaning you’re not supposed to understand, only feel.