At first, it was innocent—her laughter rising above the rest of the table, her body tipping slightly toward him in the moment. She leaned against his shoulder the way someone might when caught in sudden amusement, when the weight of laughter made them lose balance for a second. But when the laughter faded, she didn’t pull away. She stayed, her shoulder pressed to his, the contact light but constant, as though she had found comfort there. To anyone watching, it might have seemed unremarkable. But to him, it was anything but.
The warmth of her body seeped through the thin layers of fabric, spreading across his skin until he became acutely aware of every breath, every small shift of her weight. She continued to smile, joining in the conversation, yet her posture betrayed her—tilted just enough to make their touch unavoidable, deliberate. He felt her hair brush against his cheek when she turned, the faint scent of her perfume rising each time she moved. The closeness was casual to the eye, but everything about it was intentional to the body. It was a game of stillness—how long could she linger before it was noticed, how long could he endure before he gave something away?
When she finally leaned back, it wasn’t sudden. She moved slowly, lazily, as though reluctant to give up the comfort she had claimed. But before she pulled away completely, she allowed her shoulder to graze his one last time, the slide of fabric against fabric lingering longer than necessary. The absence that followed felt heavy, almost deliberate, as though she had left behind the echo of her weight. It wasn’t just the press of her shoulder he remembered—it was the unspoken message in how long she had stayed, how willingly she had blurred the line between accident and intention.