It was nothing at first. Her hand reached across the table, casual, innocent. She drew her fingertip along the rim of his glass, tracing it slowly, as if it were nothing more than idle distraction. But the motion carried a weight that had nothing to do with absent-minded play.
Her touch lingered, circling the edge, the faint sound of glass humming faintly beneath her pressure. He watched, transfixed, unable to look away. The way her finger moved wasn’t careless—it was deliberate, paced, suggestive. She was aware of his eyes on her, and she didn’t shy from it. In fact, she seemed to invite it, as if each circle was meant for him alone.
Then, almost imperceptibly, her fingertip shifted. Just enough. Her hand came close—too close—and for a moment he swore she had brushed against his. It wasn’t direct contact, not really, but it was close enough to blur the line between touching the glass and touching him. His pulse betrayed him, quickening in anticipation, in hunger for something so slight yet so dangerous.
She noticed—of course she noticed. Her lips curved faintly, her eyes darted to his, and she let the moment stretch unbearably. She could have withdrawn her hand. She didn’t. She stayed there, fingers toying, threatening to touch again, each pass around the rim daring him to lean just a fraction closer.
When her nail finally scraped the glass with a delicate ting, it cut through the silence like a secret message. He felt it more than he heard it—felt it in his chest, in the tightening of his throat, in the way his hand twitched on the table as though it wanted to reach for hers.
But she pulled back before he could move. Her hand withdrew, slow, deliberate, as though she had finished something important. She left the glass untouched, but the space between them charged with unspoken electricity.
He lifted the glass then, drinking not because he was thirsty but because he needed to do something, anything, to cover the way his hand trembled slightly. The glass was cool against his lips, but it carried the ghost of her warmth. And when he set it back down, he half-wished she would reach for it again.
Because it wasn’t the drink that mattered. It was the memory she had left behind on its rim, the tease of a touch that wasn’t quite a touch, and the ache of knowing she had done it on purpose.