It began so subtly that he almost dismissed it as nothing. A crowded room, the murmur of low conversation, and the press of bodies moving just close enough to brush. He felt the old woman at his side lean slightly, as if balancing herself. Her hand, warm and steady, landed against the small of his back. At first, it was light—just a polite touch meant to steady her stance. That’s what anyone else might have assumed. But then, just as he expected her to pull away, her palm lingered.
A heartbeat longer. That was all. But in that heartbeat, her presence became undeniable. He could feel the spread of her fingers, the weight of her touch pressing through the thin layer of his shirt. It wasn’t a mistake. She wanted him to notice.
His shoulders stiffened, not out of discomfort, but out of recognition—he was suddenly aware of the deliberate intimacy hidden beneath that touch. She, on the other hand, stood close as if nothing unusual had passed between them. Her face carried the same polite smile, her eyes half-shadowed, yet her palm refused to retreat.
When she finally withdrew her hand, she didn’t break the moment. Instead, her fingertips dragged slightly across the fabric, a trace of heat left behind. That faint drag told him everything: she wanted him to feel her absence. It wasn’t merely a touch—it was an invitation, a test, a reminder that the old woman’s restraint was thinner than it seemed.
Later, when their eyes met across the room, he caught the flicker of satisfaction in hers. She knew he had noticed. She wanted him to keep noticing. And now, every time she shifted near him, every subtle brush of her sleeve, every accidental lean, he found himself waiting—wondering when that palm would return, wondering if next time it would linger even longer, daring him to respond.
It was a game only they played, hidden in plain sight. A palm against his back, a pause, a heartbeat too long—and the silent promise of something far less innocent beneath it.