It was such a small thing at first—her hand lifting, fingers poised as though she had simply noticed something out of place. She leaned toward him, eyes narrowing in gentle concentration, and brushed at the edge of his collar. A perfectly ordinary gesture. An excuse as old as time.
But then she didn’t withdraw. Her hand remained there, pressed lightly against the fabric of his shirt, her palm resting over the steady rhythm of his chest.
He felt it immediately—the warmth seeping through cloth, the quiet insistence of her touch, the way her fingers flexed just slightly as if memorizing the shape of him beneath. She carried on speaking as though nothing unusual had happened, her words smooth, her tone casual. Yet her hand contradicted every syllable.
He tried not to shift, not to give himself away, but the quickening of his pulse betrayed him. She must have felt it—there was no way she couldn’t. And still, she stayed, her touch lingering, pressing gently, making the silence between them heavier with each second.
At last, she slid her hand down slowly, not in haste, but with deliberate care, fingertips dragging lightly across his chest until they slipped free. Her smile was faint, secretive, as though she had tested something and found the result pleasing.
The next time, she didn’t even pretend it was about the collar. She placed her hand flat against him while leaning close to whisper something, her voice low, her breath stirring the air between them. Her hand stayed there, firm and unflinching, as if she owned the space it claimed.
And he—helpless in his stillness—let her. Because there was no mistaking it anymore. This was not correction. It was possession, disguised in tenderness. A claim, hidden in plain sight.