It began as a small adjustment. She shifted in her chair, her movement subtle, almost casual. But instead of leaning away, she angled herself ever so slightly toward him, until the edge of her thigh brushed against his. The contact was light, fleeting at first, but it lingered long enough for him to notice. Too long to be ignored.
He told himself it was coincidence. People moved, chairs were close, space was limited. Yet, when her thigh pressed again—this time slower, with a deliberate softness—he knew better. The fabric of her dress whispered against him, the warmth of her skin bleeding through the thin layer of cloth, reminding him how close she truly was. She didn’t glance at him. She didn’t apologize or adjust. Instead, she carried on with the conversation as though nothing unusual had happened, her voice smooth, her expression steady.
But her body told a different story. The subtle pressure remained, the curve of her thigh fitting against his like a puzzle piece she had chosen to lock in place. Every small movement she made—shifting slightly, tilting toward him to emphasize a point, leaning back with a sigh—only deepened the contact, making it clear she had no intention of pulling away. The friction was quiet, invisible to anyone else, yet deafening between the two of them.
His pulse quickened with every brush of her leg, every unspoken message that radiated through the shared point of contact. She had blurred the line between accident and intention, and now he was trapped in the charged space she had created. When she finally leaned back, crossing her legs with slow precision, the withdrawal felt sharp—like the sudden absence of heat after fire. And though she pretended nothing had happened, he knew. She had shifted for a reason, and she had made sure he understood exactly what that reason was.