The table was small, but she leaned across it anyway, her body tilting forward, her sleeve falling toward him as she reached for the dish. He might have believed it an accident—if not for the way her arm brushed against his shoulder and lingered there.
It wasn’t a heavy touch, nothing that could be called obvious. Just the barest graze of fabric and skin, soft and fleeting. But she didn’t pull back right away. Instead, she shifted the plate, her arm still against him, her body hovering close enough that he caught the faintest trace of her perfume mixed with candle wax and wine.
He held his breath without meaning to, waiting to see how long she would draw it out. And she did—longer than was proper, longer than she needed. Each second stretched into something taut, something fragile, until at last she pulled away, her arm sliding slowly across his shoulder as though reluctant to leave.
When she settled back in her chair, her expression was unreadable. Calm. Composed. Except for the faintest spark in her eyes, quick and fleeting, like the flare of a match.
The second time it happened, there was no mistaking her intent. She leaned in again, closer than before, her arm grazing him with deliberate slowness. This time her fingers brushed the edge of his glass as she placed the dish down, her body suspended in that narrow space between distance and contact.
He could have shifted away. He didn’t. And when she finally pulled back, she smiled faintly, a smile that seemed to say: You let me. You wanted me to.
It was dangerous, how something so small could feel so heavy. How the graze of an arm, the closeness of a body, could ignite more than words ever could.
And when she reached for another dish, he almost hoped she would do it again.