He was seated, half-turned toward her, when she rose. The movement was graceful, unhurried, but instead of stepping away, she stayed beside him. One hand came to rest on the back of his chair, light at first, then firmer, her palm pressing into the wood as though anchoring herself there.
It could have been nothing—just a casual gesture, a resting place for her hand. But the weight of it said otherwise. She wasn’t just touching the chair. She was touching him, her presence closing in, her body hovering close enough that the air between them seemed charged.
He tilted his head slightly, and in doing so, brushed against the edge of her sleeve. She didn’t move. If anything, she leaned in just enough to make the closeness undeniable.
Her hand stayed on the chair, fingers flexing, claiming the space as hers. There was ownership in it, subtle but unmistakable, as though she had quietly marked him without speaking a word. He felt it in the way her shadow fell across his, in the warmth radiating from her body so close to his shoulder.
When she finally spoke, it was casual, conversational. But her hand didn’t budge. It pressed lightly, a silent declaration that the space he occupied—and perhaps the man himself—was momentarily hers.
Only when she moved away did he realize how heavy the absence felt. The chair felt emptier without her hand there, the air colder without her presence beside him.
The next time she stood, she did it again. Her hand returned to the back of his chair, her body hovering near, her touch lingering long enough to remind him of what it meant. It was no longer just a chair she was holding. It was a boundary she had crossed, a line she had redrawn.
And each time, he found himself hoping she would do it again—because in that simple, lingering touch, she told him more than words ever could.