At first it could have been explained away—her hand brushing his waist as she moved past him, light and fleeting. But it didn’t leave. Instead, her palm rested there, warm and steady, just above his hip. The contact was subtle, almost discreet, but the intention behind it left no doubt. He felt his breath falter, his body stiffening under the quiet claim.
Seconds stretched, each one heavier than the last. Her fingers shifted slightly, not enough to seem restless, but enough to let him know she was aware of the effect it had on him. He could feel his pulse racing, his body drawn to the heat of her hand despite every warning in his mind. She stood close, close enough that the gesture felt less like an accident and more like a promise.
When she finally withdrew, it was unhurried, her hand sliding away as though reluctant to let him go. The absence left a sharp ache, a strange emptiness where her warmth had been. He realized, with a quiet shiver, that it wasn’t the touch itself that unsettled him most—it was the way she made him want it to return.