The glass sat between them, a simple object, a simple excuse for closeness. He leaned forward, fingers extending, ready to take it. But before he could, her hand landed on his. Not lightly, not by mistake, but firmly, wrapping around his fingers with a slow pressure that sent heat racing up his arm.
Her eyes flicked up briefly, catching his, daring him to pull away. Yet she didn’t release him—not immediately. Her thumb brushed across the back of his hand, soft and deliberate, as though tracing lines she had no right to draw. The glass was forgotten, irrelevant; what mattered was the electricity that sparked where their hands met, the contact that lingered past the point of innocence.
When she finally let go, it wasn’t sudden. It was slow, reluctant, each finger uncoiling as though savoring the resistance. The glass ended up in his hand, but it felt weightless compared to the imprint she had left. What unsettled him most wasn’t the touch itself, but the clarity that came with it: she hadn’t been reaching for the glass at all. She had been reaching for him.