They started tangled in his, her palm pressed to his, fingers laced like they were comparing hand sizes. The couch was soft beneath them, the TV humming in the background, but neither was watching. Her thumb brushed the back of his hand, slow, like she was tracing a memory, and he smiled, thinking this was the kind of quiet intimacy they’d mastered over the years.
Then her pinky slipped free, curling around his wrist, and before he could register the shift, her middle finger was sliding up his forearm, light as a breath. He laughed, about to ask what she was up to, but the words died when her hand moved again—over his elbow, down his bicep, stopping at the hem of his sleeve. Not lingering. Just pausing, like she was mapping a path, before dipping beneath the fabric.
It wasn’t a rush. It was a progression—from the innocent clasp of hands to the bold press of her palm against his ribs, her fingers splaying wide as if to cover more ground. He tensed, then relaxed, letting her lead, because there was something thrilling in the way she moved—no hesitation, no pretense, just a slow unfurling of desire that started with a touch and kept going, past the point of casual, into something hotter, hungrier.
Her hand stilled, just above the waistband of his jeans, and she met his eyes, a question in hers that didn’t need words. He nodded, and she smiled, that same smile that had started with a simple brush of fingers, before moving on—somewhere else entirely, somewhere only the two of them would ever know.