She reached across with the smallest excuse—a speck of dust, she said. The gesture seemed innocent, practical even, yet it carried a weight that made the moment stretch longer than it should. Her fingers, soft yet deliberate, moved along the fabric of his sleeve with a tenderness that was not about cleaning but about claiming. He felt the warmth of her skin through the cloth, the slow drag of fingertips that seemed to forget their purpose.
He froze, unsure if he should step back or allow the touch to linger. But she didn’t give him the chance. Her hand settled, resting lightly at his elbow, and her eyes lifted to meet his. There was no apology in them, no pretense—only the quiet defiance of a woman who knew the effect she had and dared him to acknowledge it.
The air between them thickened. He could hear the faint sound of her breath, see the faint lines at the corners of her lips that curved into a half-smile. She didn’t move away; she didn’t pretend it was accidental. Instead, she let her thumb make a slow, almost imperceptible circle on his sleeve, like she was testing not the fabric but his reaction.
Inside him, something twisted—caught between propriety and desire. The voice of reason told him to step aside, to shake off the intimacy of her touch. But another voice, the quieter one he tried to silence, urged him to stay still, to savor the rare electricity of a moment stolen from rules and expectations.
Her hand finally slid down just a little, brushing against his forearm. It was casual in appearance, deliberate in execution. When she finally withdrew, she did it slowly, letting him feel every fraction of the retreat. It left his skin alive, burning where her fingers had been, as if she had marked him in ways he could not erase.
And as she stepped back, her eyes lingered. Not on the sleeve she had “fixed,” but on him—watching, waiting, as though daring him to reach for what she had only hinted at.