Frank never expected a woman’s wrist to undo him like this.
He’d known Laura for years — his neighbor, widowed five summers ago, always friendly but distant. She was the kind of woman who always waved from her porch but never let anyone get too close. At sixty-three, she carried herself like someone who had secrets she’d never say out loud.
Tonight was different.
It started with a broken light on Frank’s back porch. Laura had offered to help — “I know my way around wires better than you think,” she’d laughed, holding up a small toolbox.
He thought it’d be a quick fix. But now they were in his kitchen, just the two of them, the hum of the fridge filling the silence between soft voices.
Frank noticed it first when she reached for the screwdriver. The way her sleeve slipped down, exposing her wrist — pale, delicate, lined faintly where the veins ran. But it wasn’t just her skin that caught him.
It was the way her wrist moved.
Slow. Deliberate.
She turned it ever so slightly as she handed him the tool, her fingers brushing his palm for just a moment too long.
Frank froze.
It was nothing. It had to be nothing. But Laura’s eyes lingered on his face as if testing whether he’d noticed.
Then she smiled — barely there, a quiet curve of her lips — and went back to tightening the screws.
He tried to focus, but his mind betrayed him. Every time she reached forward, every shift of her arm, every flex of her wrist became impossible to ignore. She moved like she knew what she was doing to him — like she wanted him to see.
The moment stretched when she leaned closer, steadying herself on the counter. Her wrist brushed his hand this time, softer than before, the faint warmth of her skin sinking into him.
Frank’s breath caught.
She didn’t pull back.
Laura looked up, holding his gaze, and for the first time in years, he saw something raw in her expression — something she wasn’t saying out loud.
“Frank…” she whispered, her voice low, almost hesitant, but her wrist stayed where it was, pressing lightly against his fingers.
He swallowed hard. “Laura…”
Neither of them moved for a long second. The kitchen felt too quiet, the hum of the fridge suddenly loud, the weight of the moment almost unbearable.
Then she shifted her hand, turning her wrist upward, exposing the soft inside — a silent invitation she didn’t put into words.
Frank’s chest tightened, torn between hesitation and wanting, but when she tilted her head slightly and whispered, “Do you feel it too?” he stopped pretending.
Their hands finally locked.
Her wrist trembled under his thumb, her pulse racing faster than she’d admit. And in that fragile, charged silence, Frank understood everything she hadn’t said.
Her wrist told the truth.
She wanted this as much as he did.