It began with the passing of something ordinary—a fork, a napkin, a glass across the table. Their hands brushed in the exchange, nothing remarkable in itself. But then, instead of withdrawing immediately, her fingers slipped against his wrist, tracing the soft skin just beneath his palm. It was subtle, the kind of contact that could be dismissed if questioned, the kind that could be cloaked as unthinking. Yet there was nothing unthinking about the way her touch lingered. Her fingertips moved lightly, deliberately, drawing invisible lines that sparked like fire beneath his skin.
He felt his breath catch, though he forced his expression to remain neutral. Around them, conversation flowed without pause, no one noticing the secret unfolding in plain sight. She tilted her head, listening to someone else speak, her expression innocent, almost detached. But her hand betrayed her composure. Every few seconds, her fingers shifted, brushing against him again, each movement just soft enough to pass as accident, just intentional enough to make him know it wasn’t. She was testing him, daring him to react, daring him to acknowledge that something was happening between them that no one else could see.
When she finally let her touch fall away, the absence felt sharper than the contact itself. He realized how much he had leaned into the silent game, how much he had begun to crave the return of her hand. And just when he thought it was over, when he thought she had finished teasing him, her fingers found his wrist again, grazing across it as though by chance. The repetition made it undeniable—she was doing it on purpose, and she wanted him to know it. That single point of touch, that hidden play of fingers against skin, carried more heat than anything else she might have said aloud. It was an accident only to the unobservant; to him, it was a promise, whispered through touch.