It started as an accident, or at least that was how it looked. The space beneath the table was narrow, their chairs drawn close, and when her knee brushed against his, it could have been explained by the setting. He told himself not to think too much of it, not to assign meaning where there might be none. But then he noticed—she didn’t move. Her knee remained pressed against his, light at first, then more certain, as though she had settled into the contact. The rest of her body carried on as if nothing had changed. She laughed at the conversation, toyed with her napkin, lifted her glass. Yet beneath the table, her touch was steady, intentional, impossible to ignore.
The warmth of her leg seeped through the thin fabric of his trousers, pulling his awareness downward, anchoring his thoughts to the hidden place they shared. Every time he shifted, waiting for her to draw away, she adjusted too—subtle enough to appear unthinking, bold enough to make clear that it wasn’t an accident at all. It was a private language, one meant only for him, invisible to anyone else in the room. She was playing a game in plain sight, daring him to react, daring him to let the pressure of her touch unravel the composure he wore like armor.
Minutes stretched, each one amplifying the tension. The conversation above the table blurred into background noise, but beneath it their knees spoke louder than words. Finally, she tilted her head toward him, her smile curling just enough to betray the secret they were sharing. That smile told him she knew exactly what she was doing—that her knee wasn’t resting against his by mistake, but by choice. And when she finally shifted away, it wasn’t because she had to. It was because she wanted him to feel the sudden absence, to ache for the return of a touch she had given so easily.