She had always believed promises were fragile—spoken easily, broken even easier. But the first time his hand rested at her waist, she understood safety differently. It wasn’t in the words he said—it was in the weight of his palm, firm and steady, holding her without claiming too much. The gesture was simple, almost natural, yet her body reacted as though it had been waiting for exactly that touch.
The warmth spread from where his fingers pressed lightly against her side, a heat that traveled upward through her chest and down to her legs. She didn’t pull away. She leaned into it, subtly at first, then more deliberately, as if her body were admitting what her lips couldn’t say aloud. Around them, the noise of the world continued, but inside that small circle of his hand and her waist, everything felt still. Married men, she thought, had a way of making even silence feel secure.
Later, when she replayed the moment in her mind, she realized she hadn’t cared about what words they exchanged. What stayed with her was the memory of his touch—the way it steadied her, the way it made her feel wanted without being consumed. It was safer than any promise could have been, because it didn’t ask for forever. It only asked for now. And for her, now was more than enough.