Her laughter rang out easily, sweet and unthreatening, the kind of sound that softened the room. But in the middle of it, her hand found its way to his chest. The gesture looked casual, playful even, yet her palm stayed flat against him, her fingers spread as though measuring the rise and fall of his breath.
What should have been a fleeting touch deepened into something heavier. He felt the heat of her hand seeping through his shirt, every small movement of her fingers sparking against his skin. She continued laughing, her voice light, but her eyes betrayed her—watchful, studying the way his chest lifted faster beneath her touch. She was testing him, not with words, but with the undeniable evidence of his reaction.
By the time her hand finally withdrew, the laughter had faded into a silence far more intimate. He could still feel the echo of her touch, the phantom weight pressing against him. It wasn’t the sound of her laugh that haunted him—it was the quiet daring hidden in her palm, the unspoken question she had left stamped against his skin.