The room was crowded, but not enough to justify it. She moved through the narrow gap between him and the table, her shawl grazing his arm as she passed. The contact was light, almost dismissible—yet unmistakable.
He could have sworn she slowed her pace in that moment, just enough for him to register the warmth of her shoulder, the faint pressure along his side. It wasn’t a stumble. It wasn’t clumsy. It was deliberate in the way it left no proof, only sensation.
Her perfume lingered in the air behind her, mingling with the faint hum of the room. She didn’t look back, but her posture seemed to say she knew exactly what she’d done.
It was over in seconds, but the echo of it stayed with him. He found himself wondering if anyone else had noticed—if anyone else could have read meaning in something so small. He doubted it. That was the point.