The first brush feels like nothing, just a fleeting touch under the table, the kind of mistake two people might not even notice. But he notices. His body reacts before his mind does, sharp and alert, because her ankle doesn’t move away. It lingers, tracing a lazy path against his calf, the leather of her shoe sliding with just enough pressure to remind him this isn’t chance. He tells himself she’ll stop, that it’s just space too tight beneath the table, but when she presses firmer, the denial feels weak, almost foolish.
She doesn’t look at him when she does it. That’s the trick—she keeps her eyes fixed on her drink, her hand spinning the stem of the glass as if all her attention is there. But the arch of her foot tells another story. He feels her heel hook, then drag upward, the movement slow enough to set his nerves on fire. The conversation at the table continues around them, polite and forgettable, but inside that private shadowed space, something else entirely is happening—something louder than words, more intimate than any public confession.
And when she finally shifts again, just slightly, he realizes she’s waiting for him to react. To twitch, to pull away, to make it awkward. But he doesn’t. He stays still, letting her write her silent invitation across his skin with every trace of her ankle. It’s more than temptation—it’s the promise of what happens when a boundary isn’t guarded, when the line between accident and intention blurs too beautifully to resist.