It began with laughter—genuine, full, the kind that came from deep in the chest. Something he said had caught her off guard, and she bent slightly forward, her smile wide, her shoulders shaking with amusement. In the midst of her laughter, her hand rose almost unconsciously and landed flat against his chest, steadying herself as though his body were the only anchor she needed.
Her palm was warm, even through the thin fabric of his shirt. At first, it felt innocent—an instinctive gesture born from the moment. But then her laughter faded, softening into a lingering smile, and her hand remained where it was. Not withdrawn, not shifting away, but resting against him as though she had forgotten it.
He felt her fingers curl slightly, pressing more firmly into the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The contact was too deliberate to be dismissed. She tilted her head back, her eyes still bright, her lips parted as though to say something more—but still, her palm lingered. The warmth of her touch spread through him, slow and deliberate, like heat seeping into his bloodstream.
Around them, conversation carried on, the world buzzing with casual chatter. Yet he felt cocooned in the silence between them, trapped by the pressure of her hand. She wasn’t gripping him; she didn’t need to. The simplicity of her palm resting against his chest was intimate enough, bold enough to blur every line of propriety.
When she finally pulled her hand away, it wasn’t abrupt. Her fingers trailed slightly, brushing down the front of his shirt before slipping free. The ghost of her touch lingered long after, his skin burning beneath the fabric where her palm had rested. She smiled again, softer this time, as though she knew exactly what she’d done—and exactly how long she’d let herself stay there.