The joke had been harmless. Everyone laughed, and so did she, but her laughter didn’t scatter quickly like the others. It slowed, softened, and seemed to float between them with an intimacy that felt out of place. He caught the way her eyes flickered toward him, as if she was sharing the moment only with him, though the room was filled with voices. Then came the touch—her hand falling naturally onto his knee, casual enough to be explained away as playful. But she didn’t pull back right away. She stayed, holding the moment like it mattered.
He could feel the weight of her fingers—not heavy, not insistent, but present enough that his body reacted before his mind had time to rationalize. Every second stretched, the touch becoming more intentional simply because it lasted too long. He wondered if others noticed, but the thought barely mattered; her hand was there, warm and steady, and it told him more than words could. He dared not shift, dared not break the spell, because something about her stillness made the air around them hum with quiet suggestion.
When she finally drew her hand back, the absence was louder than the touch had been. His knee felt colder, emptier, as though she’d left a mark that didn’t fade. She smiled lightly, carrying on with the conversation as if nothing happened. But he knew it had. The softness of her laugh, the lingering of her hand—it wasn’t just coincidence. It was a confession without a single word spoken, and it left him waiting, wondering when she might decide to do it again.