At first, it seemed like nothing more than a casual gesture—a touch to steady herself, a fleeting brush of fingers against fabric. But the hand did not leave. Her skin, soft but carrying the texture of years, remained pressed lightly against his arm, long enough for him to notice, long enough for him to wonder if it was intentional.
The weight of her touch carried something unspoken, something that traveled from her hand into his veins. He felt his pulse quicken beneath the surface, an involuntary reaction that left him ashamed of his own body. He tried to mask the tremor in his breath, but her eyes flicked up, catching him, as if she knew. As if she wanted him to feel that quiet tension.
And when she finally did let go, it wasn’t abrupt. Her fingers slid away slowly, deliberately, leaving behind a ghostly warmth on his skin. He found himself missing it instantly—searching for the echo of her touch as though it carried a meaning words could never express.