It should have been simple. Two hands reaching at once, an accident, nothing more. But when her fingers met his, curling briefly over the same object, the moment shifted into something heavier, charged.
Their skin touched first in surprise, a startled overlap of motion, but instead of the quick retreat that politeness demanded, she hesitated. Her hand remained, soft against his, warm and deliberate. For one heartbeat, they held the same space, neither pulling away. And in that pause, the entire atmosphere changed.
He felt it immediately—the texture of her skin, the delicate tension of her fingers resting against his. It wasn’t just contact; it was intention. She could have withdrawn, could have let him take what he was reaching for. But she lingered. The weight of her choice vibrated through him, setting his pulse hammering in his chest.
When she finally shifted, it wasn’t quick. Her fingers slid against his slowly, grazing his knuckles as though memorizing them. It was an exit designed not to end the touch but to extend it, to leave something behind. And it worked. He was left staring at his hand, feeling her warmth long after she had pulled away.
She looked at him then, and he saw it—the faint curve of her lips, the half-smile that gave her away. She knew exactly what she had done. The brush had been intentional, a fleeting tether that left him suspended between restraint and desire. He tried to recover, tried to hide the way his breath had caught, but she saw it. Her eyes lingered on him the way her fingers had lingered a moment earlier, unhurried, unapologetic.
Afterward, everything between them carried a different weight. Every movement felt pregnant with possibility, every glance like a dare. When she reached for something else later, he couldn’t help but wonder—would her hand find his again? Would she let the touch last longer this time? He almost wished for it, though he knew the danger in such wishing.
That first brush had been a beginning, not an accident. A quiet message sent through skin, a language spoken without words: I could let go… but I don’t want to. And maybe you don’t either.
And he didn’t.