The command came lightly, almost playful. “Sit still,” she murmured, as though he were fidgeting too much. He obeyed, more out of curiosity than discipline, and that was when he felt it—her knee, pressing against his beneath the table. At first it seemed accidental, a casual overlap in too-small a space. But then it moved, slow and deliberate, grazing along his leg in a way that made his breath falter.
He glanced at her, expecting to find some trace of acknowledgement, but her face betrayed nothing. She kept her eyes forward, her voice steady, continuing the conversation as though nothing beneath the table was happening. Yet the pressure increased, her knee sliding just enough to make stillness impossible, to turn the act of sitting into a silent torture of closeness.
The room carried on around them, unaware, but for him the world had narrowed to a single point of contact. She had told him to stay still, and he did—but inside, the restraint burned. Because every inch her knee advanced was not an accident, but a provocation. And sometimes, the most dangerous touches are the ones hidden in plain sight.