It begins innocently, as all dangerous things often do. He isn’t paying attention—at least, not until he feels it. Just the faintest touch, the trail of her fingertip grazing the delicate skin at his wrist. The sensation is so light it could have been nothing, a slip of chance, a brush of air. But the pace—the deliberate slowness—betrays her.
The wrist is a quiet place, a vulnerable place. A pulse beats there, steady, undeniable, impossible to hide. When her finger drags across it, he feels not only her touch but also his own life beneath it—thudding, fast, betraying him. Did she know? Of course she did. A woman doesn’t linger there by mistake.
He stiffens, but she doesn’t withdraw. She takes her time, each millimeter drawn out until seconds feel like minutes. He wonders: was it intentional? If he confronts her, he risks shattering the fragile spell. If he says nothing, he risks surrendering completely. And that is exactly the tension she wants.
His mind scrambles to interpret the gesture, but his body already knows. The wrist is a tether—delicate, intimate. She could have touched his arm, his hand, his shoulder, but no. She chose the one place where blood runs hot and close to the skin, where his pulse betrays every thought he tries to conceal.
He wants to catch her hand, to hold it, to demand clarity. But he doesn’t. He lets her fingertip finish its slow migration, dragging across him like a secret written in invisible ink. And when she finally pulls away, leaving the skin bare, the ghost of her touch lingers more powerfully than contact itself.
She leaves him caught in the question—accident, or intention? He already knows the answer. The hesitation was her weapon, and she used it flawlessly.