It happened so naturally he almost thought it was instinct. They were standing close, too close for strangers, when her fingers found his wrist and guided his hand to the curve of her waist. The contact was firm enough to be intentional, soft enough to feel like an invitation. His fingertips registered the warmth beneath the thin fabric of her dress, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing.
But she didn’t let go. That was the part that caught him. A second passed, then another, and still her hand rested over his, keeping it exactly where she wanted it. She continued speaking as if nothing had changed, her tone steady, but her body telling him more than her words ever could.
He became acutely aware of everything—her nearness, the faint pressure of her hip, the way her fingers lingered just above his knuckles. By the time she finally released him, it didn’t feel like she had simply removed her hand. It felt like she had taken something with her, leaving behind an absence he couldn’t name but desperately wanted to fill again.