The first touch was casual, almost clumsy. A bump beneath the table, the kind of contact that might happen when space was tight. He could have believed it was nothing—just two bodies navigating the closeness. But instead of shifting away, she stayed. Her hip, pressed lightly into his, didn’t retreat. In fact, as the seconds passed, she adjusted, just enough to turn that accidental brush into a steady pressure, one that carried weight and intent.
He felt the warmth of her body through fabric, the slow rhythm of her breathing syncing against his side. It wasn’t overwhelming, not at first—but the lack of retreat spoke volumes. Every moment she remained pressed into him added layers to the gesture, transforming what could have been dismissed into something undeniable. His thoughts scattered, trying to hold onto the conversation above the table while his body was trapped in the silent language beneath it. She knew exactly what she was doing. The faint shift of her weight, the way she leaned slightly so her hip molded more completely against his, all of it deliberate.
It became harder for him to sit still. He wanted to adjust, to reclaim some space, but the thought of moving felt like surrender. And perhaps worse, he realized he didn’t want to. There was something intoxicating about her quiet insistence, the unspoken claim she staked with nothing more than the side of her body. She made no apology, no effort to disguise it. She let him feel her presence pressed into his, daring him to acknowledge it. The longer it lasted, the more the world above the table blurred, until all he could focus on was the steady, unyielding press of her hip against his, as if she were telling him, wordlessly but firmly: I’m not going anywhere.