The hallway was narrow enough that two people could barely pass without turning their shoulders. He was standing there, half-leaning against the wall, when she came walking through. She could have slowed, could have stepped sideways, but instead she came straight on, close enough that he felt the warmth radiating from her before she even touched him.
When she did brush against him, it wasn’t the light, accidental sort of contact most people would hurry to excuse. No—her hip slid along his as she passed, her shoulder grazing his chest, her hair briefly catching against his sleeve. She didn’t look up at him. She didn’t murmur a quick apology. Instead, she let the silence stretch, her body angled just enough that he felt each second of contact before she finally moved ahead.
But even then, she didn’t move quickly. She walked slowly, deliberately, as though she wanted him to watch her retreat, to absorb the lingering sensation she had left behind. He stood frozen for a beat longer than he should have, his hand flexing at his side as though it remembered the brush of her skin even through the barrier of fabric.
He told himself it had to be nothing—just the accident of a tight hallway. And yet… there was the matter of her head turning slightly, just enough for him to see the curve of her smile before she disappeared around the corner. That smile wasn’t an accident. It was a message: I know you felt it. I wanted you to.
The next time it happened, he understood. She passed him again, this time slower, her body leaning just barely closer than necessary. He felt her pause—a fraction of a second, but enough to make his breath catch. And again, no apology, no explanation. Only the unspoken dare left in the wake of her passing: Do you notice me now?
By the third time, it wasn’t an accident. It was a ritual. She would brush against him, linger just long enough to stir something he couldn’t suppress, then leave him standing in the narrow hallway, restless, uncertain, and waiting for the next time.