It started with the smallest shift, so slight he thought it might have been a mistake. Her knee touched his under the table, a fleeting contact that should have passed unnoticed. But it didn’t. The warmth lingered, pressed just enough to remind him of how close she sat. He froze, uncertain if he should adjust, but his hesitation cost him. She didn’t move.
The longer it stayed, the clearer her intention became. Every few seconds, her knee pressed a little more firmly, just enough to remind him it was no accident. His mind raced, torn between the urge to withdraw and the thrill of letting it happen. Each subtle push felt like a challenge, a silent message that she knew he wouldn’t dare to pull away. And with every passing moment, that simple point of contact burned hotter, until he could no longer ignore it.
When she finally leaned closer, speaking softly as if nothing unusual was happening, he realized she had him trapped in her rhythm. Her voice flowed smoothly, her knee remained against his, and he sat caught in the tension she had carefully built. By then, he understood: she wasn’t going to move first. And neither was he.