It began innocently enough, the kind of touch people excuse without thinking. She reached for his sleeve as if to steady herself, fingers curling lightly against the fabric. It was the sort of gesture that should have lasted a heartbeat, brief and unremarkable. But the seconds stretched, and she didn’t withdraw. Her hand remained, delicate but deliberate, the pressure light yet insistent. He became aware of her in a way he hadn’t a moment before—the softness of her grip, the way her body seemed anchored to him by that single point of contact. A casual gesture had turned into something heavier, a weight that pressed into the silence between them.
He glanced at her, searching for an explanation, but her expression betrayed none. She kept speaking, as though the touch was incidental, as though she had no awareness of how long her hand lingered. But her stillness told another story. If it were truly accidental, she would have moved. Instead, she let her fingers remain, shifting only slightly, tracing faint patterns in the cloth of his sleeve as if memorizing the texture. He felt the heat of her skin through the barrier of fabric, each second dragging him deeper into awareness. It wasn’t bold enough to be called an embrace, but it was far too intentional to be dismissed as nothing. She had created a space where denial was impossible.
When her hand finally fell away, it wasn’t abrupt. It slid down slowly, fingertips trailing against him until even the last thread of connection dissolved. The absence stung as much as the touch itself had thrilled. He knew she meant for it to linger, to etch itself into his skin, his memory, his restraint. And when she looked up at him again, her eyes were calm, almost innocent, but the truth shimmered in the silence. She hadn’t held on by mistake. She had held on because she wanted him to feel it, to remember it, to wonder how long she would let herself linger next time. And he did. He wondered endlessly.