He noticed it the moment she leaned closer, her body just enough toward his to make him acutely aware of the space they shared. A strand of her hair fell across his arm, soft, silky, and completely accidental—at least that’s what she made it seem. But then she tilted her head slightly, adjusting her posture so the hair would rest there longer, brushing gently against his skin as though it were another layer of contact.
The sensation was subtle but unmistakable. Each pass of her hair sent shivers up his arm, a delicate friction that contrasted sharply with the calmness of her outward demeanor. She laughed softly at something someone else said, her attention seemingly elsewhere, yet every movement of her head kept her hair dancing across him. He could feel the warmth of her strands against his skin, the slight sway of her shoulder with each laugh or tilt, and the tension of her control became unmistakable.
He shifted slightly, hoping to catch a hint of her intent or perhaps to see if she’d notice, but she let it linger, prolonging the contact just enough to make it undeniable. She didn’t glance at him directly—her eyes were elsewhere—but he felt her focus in the small, persistent way she let her hair remain against his arm. Every subtle motion became a silent conversation, a teasing rhythm that said more than words ever could.
And when she finally tilted her head back, allowing the strand to fall away, he felt the absence as keenly as the touch itself. The memory of her hair brushing against him lingered, a quiet, intimate imprint, leaving him conscious of her nearness even when she was already slightly away. She didn’t need to hold his hand, or lean fully on him; just a strand of hair, left to dance on his skin, was enough to make him aware of the electricity between them.