It began innocently, the brush of her hand as she reached past him. But she didn’t withdraw quickly. Instead, her fingers lingered on the fabric of his sleeve, light enough to seem accidental, heavy enough to make him freeze. That pause—too long, too deliberate—was enough to unsteady his breath.
For him, the sensation was sharper than a kiss. He felt the warmth of her fingertips radiate through his skin, a reminder that some touches are louder than confessions. He knew he should step back, shrug it off, pretend not to notice. Yet the longer she stayed, the more he betrayed himself by not moving.
When she finally pulled away, it was too late. The air between them had already shifted, thick with awareness. He inhaled sharply, as though he had been holding his breath the whole time. In that stolen moment, her restraint was more dangerous than any embrace—because she proved that temptation can be born in the smallest touch.