The glass should have been nothing—a casual pass, an ordinary exchange between two people sitting close. But nothing about the way she moved was ordinary. She picked up the glass with slow precision, her eyes steady on his as though the act carried weight. When she held it out, she didn’t simply release it into his waiting hand. No, her fingers lingered, curving delicately around his, as if refusing to let the moment end too quickly.
The chill of the glass was almost lost beneath the heat of her touch. For a heartbeat, it was no longer a drink he was receiving but a silent confession—one that pulsed against his skin with every second her hand refused to pull away. He looked down, watching the subtle bend of her fingers curling against his knuckles, and something tightened low in his chest. She was holding him, not the glass. She was saying more with her silence than with any words she could have spoken.
Her thumb brushed faintly against the side of his hand when she finally let go, but the contact was enough to leave a trace. He lifted the glass to his lips, but he wasn’t tasting the drink—he was tasting her pause, her reluctance to release him, the deliberate friction of skin that had wanted to stay. And when he lowered the glass, she was still watching him, her eyes heavy with that knowing softness, her lips just faintly parted as if daring him to call the gesture what it was.
The room felt louder, brighter, almost intrusive, and yet all he could focus on was the ghost of her touch. Every time she reached for something afterward, he noticed the way her fingers moved, the way they could so easily find his if she chose. And he knew—because she had let him know—that she would choose again. The glass had been an excuse, a vessel carrying something more intoxicating than any drink could hold. It was her way of telling him she didn’t want to let go, not of the glass, not of him—and he was left aching for her to prove it again.