Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the table, a casual gesture, like she was steadying herself. The wood was cool under her palm, smooth from years of use, but he barely noticed the table. What he noticed was the way her thumb stroked the surface once, twice, slow, deliberate, like she was marking time.
His breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound, and she didn’t look up, but he saw the corner of her mouth lift, just slightly. This wasn’t about the table. It was about him—about knowing exactly what her quiet, unassuming movements did to him. She’d never needed grand gestures to unnerve him. A brush of her fingers, a tilt of her head, a single, slow touch—and he was unraveling.
He tried to steady his breathing, to act like her hand on the table was nothing, but his lungs felt tight, his pulse loud in his ears. She’d mastered this: making the mundane feel charged, turning a simple touch into a question, a challenge, a silent reminder of how deeply she could affect him.
When she finally lifted her hand, placing it in her lap, the table felt empty, but the tremble in his breath lingered. Some power isn’t in what you do. It’s in making someone else feel it—even when you’re barely trying.