She tells herself it’s just a natural reflex, that her hand finds his arm only because the crowd around them makes her nervous. Yet the truth slips through her body quicker than words can form—her grip lingers, too tight to be accidental, too warm to be dismissed. The fabric of his sleeve is soft, but underneath it she can feel the solid weight of his muscle, the quiet steadiness of a man who has lived longer, carried more responsibility than most. And in that moment, she knows the excuse she keeps rehearsing is a lie; she holds on because it feels good, because it reminds her of safety wrapped inside temptation. He glances down at her fingers curled around him, but he doesn’t pull away. That stillness only feeds her hunger.
The walk should be ordinary, just two people moving side by side, yet the tension in her hand transforms it into something charged. Every step makes her more aware of the difference between clinging politely and clutching possessively. She imagines how it looks from a distance: a woman leaning in too close, her hand hooked around a man who isn’t free. And the thought doesn’t make her retreat—it makes her grip harder, as if her fingers can claim a part of him no vow, no ring, no wife could fully erase. His silence, too, plays into the game. He could shift his arm away, make a polite gesture of escape, but instead he lets her hold him, as though curious to see how much she dares.
The secret burns hotter the longer it lasts. She feels the warmth of his skin bleeding through the sleeve, the faint thrum of muscle when his stride lengthens, the way his scent drifts toward her each time he turns slightly in her direction. She imagines loosening her hold, but the thought makes her heart tighten instead. If she lets go now, she will lose more than touch—she will lose the thrill of control, the electric proof that he hasn’t resisted her yet. So she grips him tighter than she should, because it isn’t really about balance or safety. It’s about the satisfaction of holding something forbidden in plain sight, of knowing she could slip away but chooses not to, because the heat under her palm is worth the risk of being caught.