It begins innocently enough, or at least it looks that way. She laughs at something he says, her hand finding its way to his thigh the way friends sometimes do when words aren’t enough. But this touch lingers. What should’ve lasted a single heartbeat stretches into three, then five, until it’s no longer laughter that carries the moment but silence. He feels the weight of her palm, steady and deliberate, resting in a place that’s anything but casual.
She doesn’t look down, doesn’t acknowledge it. Her eyes stay locked on his, as if testing whether he will shift away or stay perfectly still. He knows he should move, should clear his throat, make a joke, give her the chance to take her hand back without consequence. But he doesn’t. And neither does she. The seconds blur, each one heavier than the last, until her thumb presses—just slightly—like she wants him to notice the difference between friendly and forbidden.
By the time her hand finally retreats, it leaves a phantom trace, as though his body still feels her touch even in its absence. And when she casually places it back again, later in the evening, there’s nothing accidental about it. This time, the pause in her voice tells him she knows exactly what she’s doing—stretching the boundaries of “friendly” until they no longer exist.