It began as something innocent, a hand resting near hers on the table. When his fingertips brushed against her knuckles, it was soft, almost accidental. He murmured that he’d only hold her hand, nothing more. She nodded, pretending to believe him, though the stillness in her body betrayed her anticipation. The promise was safe, respectable. But promises have a way of bending when silence stretches too long.
His fingers lingered, then moved—slow, deliberate—sliding from her knuckles to the curve of her wrist. She should have pulled away, but instead she tilted her palm upward, as if offering him more without speaking. The air thickened. Each inch his fingers traveled felt heavier than words, and when they traced the inside of her arm, she exhaled like someone who had been holding her breath too long. He hadn’t broken his promise outright, but the distance between a hand and something more was shrinking fast.
By the time his touch stopped at the delicate bend of her elbow, she understood that the boundary he had spoken of was never real. His fingers hadn’t climbed quickly—they had taken their time, mapping her, testing her patience. And in her stillness, in the way she allowed the touch to rise, she confessed her own complicity. He said he’d only touch her hand, but what he truly wanted was to see how much further she’d let him go.