It happened so slowly that it could have been mistaken for nothing at all. The room was dimly lit, their conversation soft, and the old woman leaned just close enough to rest her arm on the table. At first, her hand stayed still, folded neatly, polite. But then, as if by accident, her fingers slipped toward him.
She let them trail across the back of his hand, the movement subtle, almost casual, but calculated with exquisite precision. Her fingertips brushed his skin with a feather’s touch, not enough to claim, not enough to startle, but just enough to make him aware. She wanted him to feel it, to question it, to wonder whether it was deliberate.
His breath caught slightly, though he masked it with a half-smile. He didn’t pull away. That was her answer. She had touched him, and he had let her. The old woman’s eyes, sharp even in the low light, caught his reaction. She noted the faint shift in his posture, the way his knuckles stiffened under her fingers. She saw the hesitation, the restraint, the hidden awareness that trembled beneath the surface.
She didn’t rush. Her fingers lingered, tracing a line no one else could see, a secret conversation beneath the table’s edge. Each slow drag of her skin against his carried weight, saying what her lips could not: I notice you. I want to know if you notice me back.
And he did. Every nerve along the back of his hand lit with the pressure of her fingertips. It wasn’t the boldness of the touch that unsettled him—it was the patience, the deliberation, the way she turned something so slight into something charged. He could feel her experience in that single motion; she knew how to make a small gesture thunder louder than a kiss.
Her hand rested lightly now, not claiming, not retreating, but hovering in that delicate balance between accidental and intentional. She had given him space to respond, to either move away or to lean in. And when he did neither, she let her fingers trail once more, softer this time, almost like a sigh.
It was enough. She had confirmed what she wanted: that he felt it, that he let her, that he carried the touch with him even as the conversation continued above. Her smile remained composed, her words ordinary, but beneath the surface of civility, she had etched herself onto his skin.
And long after her hand finally withdrew, the memory of her fingers remained, lingering like a phantom touch, making him wonder what else she might let linger—if only he allowed it.