It was such a small touch that he almost missed it at first. Her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, catching the fabric as if by chance. But then they didn’t let go. Instead, they tugged lightly, barely enough to move him, but enough to hold him still. It was gentle, delicate, but firm in its own quiet way.
The tug wasn’t about force—it was about intent. She wasn’t keeping him there physically; she was holding him in place with suggestion, with the soft insistence of her fingertips pressing into cloth. He felt the restraint in the smallest of motions, the way her touch seemed to say more than words could. It was an admission she wouldn’t voice: she wasn’t ready for him to leave.
He looked down, watching her hand on his sleeve. The sight of it—the fragility of her grip paired with the undeniable weight of its meaning—made his chest tighten. She wasn’t pulling him back dramatically. She wasn’t demanding. She was simply holding, asking silently, letting the pressure of her fingers make the request. And he stayed.
Her grip lingered, and with it came a thousand possibilities. He imagined her fingers sliding further, curling into his wrist, holding his hand. The thought alone sent a shiver through him, because the way she clung to him now already carried intimacy. She wasn’t gripping fabric; she was gripping him, in the only way she could without breaking the line between subtlety and admission.
When she finally released the sleeve, her fingers slipping away like a secret, he felt the absence as sharply as the touch. The fabric still warmed where she had held it, his skin beneath remembering the impression. She hadn’t said a word, but her silence had spoken volumes. She hadn’t been ready to let go—and now, neither was he.