The room was quiet, save for the hum of the stereo, when she stepped closer, her chest brushing his. He thought it was an accident at first—crowded space, too many people, just a brush of bodies. But then she stayed, her hands resting lightly on his arms, and shifted, her hips pressing against his in a slow, deliberate rock.
No words. No sighs. Just that movement, repeated, soft but unmissable, as her fingers tightened slightly on his biceps. He tensed, his breath catching, and met her eyes. She didn’t look away, her gaze steady, a faint flush high on her cheeks that said she knew exactly what she was doing.
This was her language when words felt too loud—subtle, but clear. She didn’t need to say “I want you” when her hips could lean in, when the press of her body against his could tell the truth. He’d been dancing around it all night, too nervous to make a move, but she wasn’t waiting anymore.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, and her hips answered, moving faster now, a rhythm that matched the beat of the song. “About time,” she murmured, but it was lost in the music—and in the way their bodies finally, finally, spoke the same language.