It started with the smallest touch, one so subtle he might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching her so closely. Her hand moved past his, almost in passing, but her fingertips brushed across his wrist in a way that felt too precise to be an accident. It was light, fleeting, but enough to leave behind a spark. He glanced at her, expecting her to retreat, but instead she continued—her fingers slowing, tracing along the delicate skin just above where his pulse beat fast.
Then came the moment that changed everything. Instead of letting her hand fall away, she shifted ever so slightly and curled her fingers, hooking them gently around his wrist. It wasn’t a firm grip—nothing that could hold him if he chose to move. But that was the point. It wasn’t forceful; it was daring. She was giving him the option to pull away, but the way her touch lingered made clear that she was counting on him not to. The contact was intimate not because of strength, but because of choice. His choice.
The longer her fingers rested there, the more it felt like a claim. The curve of her touch was soft, almost delicate, but the message it carried was bold. He became acutely aware of his own stillness, of the fact that he wasn’t moving, wasn’t pulling away. Every second he allowed it stretched out the unspoken agreement between them. She didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to look at him. Her hand said everything: I’m here. I’m touching you. And I’m waiting to see if you’ll let me. And though his pulse raced beneath her fingertips, though every instinct told him he should reclaim control, he didn’t. He let her linger, let her keep her hold, because the truth was, he wanted her to.