It began with laughter, easy and natural, the kind that made him feel like a younger man again. Her voice carried warmth, and her smile lit the space between them. Yet it was her hand that betrayed her, or perhaps it was her hand that told the truth. She reached out, touched his wrist as though to steady herself, but when the laughter faded, her touch remained. Not firm, not forceful—simply there. Resting longer than courtesy allowed, lingering just enough to blur the line between casual and deliberate.
He felt it immediately, the pressure of skin against skin, the way her fingers curved ever so slightly, not enough to claim him, but enough to suggest she could. Time stretched in that touch—seconds that felt like minutes, minutes that hinted at possibilities. He knew he should pull back, remind himself of who he was and what he had promised. But the softness of her hand carried with it an unspoken plea, or was it a command? He could not decide. What he did know was that she had chosen not to move, and by doing so, she had given him something dangerous to hold onto.
Her eyes didn’t falter; they searched his face as if measuring his reaction. Was he flattered? Was he resisting? Or was he quietly surrendering to the thrill of being wanted in this way? Her hand stayed, and the air grew heavier around them. She laughed at his joke, yes—but the true punchline was hidden in that lingering touch. A joke can be forgotten in a heartbeat, but the memory of her fingers, warm against his skin, would stay with him long after. And perhaps, that was her real intention.