Tom had known Evelyn for years.
She was his late wife’s best friend — the kind of woman who always showed up with a casserole, a story, and a laugh that filled the room.
But tonight felt different.
It started innocently enough — just two old friends sharing a bottle of wine in her kitchen while the rain beat against the windows. Evelyn’s silver hair was loose for once, falling over her shoulders, and her blouse was softer, lighter than usual.
Tom tried to focus on her words, but his eyes kept drifting. Her lips moved slowly as she spoke, shaping each syllable with care. And every time she leaned closer to emphasize a point, the faint brush of her perfume hit him — lavender and something warmer beneath it.
Then it happened.
She reached across him to grab the corkscrew. Her shoulder grazed his. Just a whisper of contact.
He froze.
It should’ve meant nothing. Two old friends in a quiet kitchen. But her shoulder lingered — just a fraction too long, just enough to make him notice the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her blouse.
When she pulled back, she didn’t apologize.
She just looked at him — really looked at him — and smiled faintly, like she knew exactly what she’d done.
Tom swallowed hard, his glass trembling slightly as he raised it to his lips.
They talked about small things after that — old neighbors, family, the past — but neither of them was really listening. Every movement, every glance carried a weight neither of them had named yet.
Then Evelyn shifted closer, resting one elbow on the table. Her blouse slipped slightly, revealing the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Tom’s eyes followed without meaning to.
She noticed.
“Too much wine?” she teased softly, tilting her head, watching him.
“Maybe,” he muttered, but his voice was rougher than he intended.
Silence stretched between them. The rain outside had softened, leaving the room too quiet, too intimate.
Then she leaned in — slowly, deliberately. Her shoulder brushed his again, but this time, it didn’t pull away. It stayed there, pressing lightly, her skin warm against his arm.
Tom’s breath caught.
She glanced down, her eyelashes low, and whispered, “You feel that?”
He nodded without speaking.
Her hand moved next, fingertips grazing the back of his. Not holding. Just resting there, like testing the water. The world slowed — her breath, his heartbeat, the soft creak of the chair beneath them.
Finally, she whispered, “I thought about this… longer than I should have.”
Tom hesitated, his chest tight, torn between guilt and want, but when her shoulder pressed harder, when her hand curled softly against his, he stopped thinking altogether.