It began innocently enough. She reached out for balance, steadying herself against him when the ground beneath seemed uneven. Her hand landed flat against his chest, fingers spread instinctively, searching for something solid. It should have been a fleeting touch, a simple act of support. But it wasn’t.
Her palm lingered there. He felt the weight of it, the warmth pressing into him, the faint tremor of her fingers as they curled just slightly against the fabric of his shirt. It was too deliberate, too patient to be dismissed as an accident. She had found her balance—but she didn’t let go.
He could feel his own heartbeat betraying him, pounding against her hand as though announcing what he dared not say aloud. She must have felt it too; her lips curved faintly, the edges of her mouth hinting at something both amused and knowing. Her eyes didn’t meet his at once. Instead, they lowered briefly to where her hand rested, as though acknowledging its place before she looked up again, gaze steady and unflinching.
Time stretched. A moment that should have lasted no longer than a breath expanded into something heavier, charged. He wondered if she would withdraw—but she didn’t. Instead, her fingers shifted slightly, a subtle press, just enough to remind him she was still there, still in control.
When at last she moved her hand, she did so slowly, dragging her palm across the fabric of his shirt before releasing him. The absence of her touch burned more than its presence had. She straightened her posture with calm composure, as though nothing unusual had passed between them.
But he knew, and so did she. That touch had been more than balance. It had been a claim, a test, a quiet declaration that she could reach into his space, feel his heartbeat, and decide how long the moment would last. He had surrendered without protest, caught in the gravity of her calm, unhurried audacity.
Later, alone, he could still feel the imprint of her hand on his chest. It lingered like a phantom weight, a reminder of the silence between them, of the tension spun out from a single moment of touch. And he knew it hadn’t been chance. It had been choice—hers, not his.