At first, it was an accident. Or at least, that’s what she let herself believe. The table was small, their chairs too close, and her knee brushed his beneath the cloth. She murmured a quiet apology, her voice light, but she didn’t shift her seat back. Instead, she let the contact remain, testing the boundary in silence. The warmth of his leg against hers seeped slowly into her, grounding her in a way words never could.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat. His composure stayed steady, his voice calm as he continued speaking, but she noticed the slight change—the pause between his sentences, the faint curve of his lips as if he’d caught the game she was playing. Their conversation carried on as if nothing had changed, but beneath the table, everything had. Every shift of her body pressed her knee more firmly against him, a secret message only the two of them could read.
When the meal ended, neither of them mentioned it. They stood, polite and composed, like nothing unusual had happened. But as they left, she felt his hand brush lightly across the small of her back, a silent acknowledgment of what had passed between them. That single touch told her everything: he had noticed, he had understood, and he wasn’t about to forget. And neither was she.