It happened casually, or at least that’s how she made it appear. A gesture meant for balance, a fleeting touch under the guise of closeness. But when her hand landed on his thigh, it didn’t leave. The weight of it was subtle, light enough that he could excuse it as an accident, yet firm enough that he knew it wasn’t. She spoke as if nothing had changed, her voice steady, but her eyes flicked downward once—watching his breath catch before he forced himself back into composure.
She didn’t press harder, didn’t move. The stillness was her weapon. Every second stretched out, testing how long he could sit there without shifting, without acknowledging what was happening. The silence between them thickened, punctuated only by the unspoken question: who would break first? If he pushed her hand away, he would reveal the effect it had. If he left it, he was complicit. Both choices gave her power.
When he finally shifted, it wasn’t to push her away—it was the smallest movement, his leg tensing beneath her touch. That was enough. She smiled without looking at him, letting her fingers linger just a heartbeat longer before retreating. Nothing more than that, yet the ghost of her hand remained long after she withdrew. She knew he would replay the moment in his head later, wondering why he hadn’t stopped her sooner—and why, deep down, he was glad he didn’t.