Her hand rested on his thigh, a casual weight, as they talked, but her fingers inched upward, slow as a tide, until the tips brushed the metal of his zipper. She didn’t pause, didn’t look down, just kept speaking, her voice steady, like the contact was accidental. But seconds stretched into a breath, then two, and he felt the heat of her touch through the fabric, sharp and deliberate.
This wasn’t a mistake. Mistakes pull back. Mistakes flush and stammer. This was a choice—the kind that lingers, that burns itself into the silence between words. He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze dropping to her hand, and she finally glanced up, her lips curving into a half-smile that said caught you.
Too long to ignore, too slow to be a accident. It was a question without words: You gonna let me? He shifted, his knee brushing hers, and her fingers pressed slightly, not hard, just enough to send a jolt up his spine. Some touches aren’t meant to be acted on immediately. Some are meant to linger, to simmer, to make every word after feel like a lie.
When she finally moved her hand, sliding it back to his knee, the ghost of the zipper’s metal stayed with him, hot and bright. He knew—this wasn’t the end. It was just the start.