He was standing near the doorway when she moved past him. There was space enough to avoid contact, more than enough, but she didn’t choose that path. Her shoulder grazed his arm, her hip catching the edge of his frame as she slipped by. The touch was fleeting, lighter than air, but it carried weight. His skin burned with the memory before he even turned to follow her with his eyes. She didn’t look back. That was the most disarming part. She walked on, unhurried, as though nothing had happened—yet the angle of her movement, the slight tilt of her body, told him it hadn’t been accidental. He stayed frozen, every detail magnified: the texture of her sleeve, the curve of her step, the faint trail of her scent lingering in the narrow space they’d shared. He knew he could never prove it, never confront it, because the denial was built into the gesture. But that was exactly why it haunted him. It wasn’t the touch itself, but the intention hidden inside it. She had left him with the certainty that she could do it again, whenever she pleased, and he’d never stop replaying it in his head.