The evening had been smooth, effortless, almost rehearsed. She poured the wine with the grace of someone who had done it countless times before. Her hands were steady, her wrist relaxed, her smile unbroken. He admired her composure, the elegance in her small movements. Everything about her seemed certain, under control—until the moment his fingers grazed hers.
It was not intentional. His hand reached for the glass as hers lingered a moment too long on the stem, and the brush of skin was almost nothing. Almost. But the glass tilted, only slightly, enough for the surface of the wine to quiver. Enough for the silence between them to sharpen into something delicate and dangerous. He caught the glass quickly, and she laughed—soft, dismissive, as though it were nothing at all. Yet he saw the faintest shift in her eyes, the trace of a pause in her breath, the smallest betrayal of her calm.
Afterward, the steadiness never looked the same. Her hands still poured, still held, still gestured with that familiar elegance, but he watched too closely now. He saw the way her knuckles tightened, the way her fingertips seemed more aware of their own movements. And every time, he wondered if she felt it too—that small, trembling truth hidden beneath the surface. Sometimes, it takes only the brush of a hand to remind you that composure is a mask, and masks slip easier than anyone admits.