The kitchen was too small for two people, and she knew it. That was why she stayed. He was washing the cups, sleeves rolled back, water running clear, when she stepped closer—too close. She didn’t need to stand beside him; she could have waited. But instead, she lingered at the sink, reaching for a towel, moving with a slowness that made the narrow space feel deliberate.
Her arm brushed his once, lightly. He froze, half-turning, but she said nothing. She pretended not to notice, humming softly as though everything was ordinary. Then it happened again, her arm grazing his as she adjusted a plate. Not heavy, not clumsy—just enough to remind him she was there, close enough that her presence pressed against him with every small gesture.
It was maddening, that subtle insistence. He tried to keep his focus on the dishes, on the water, on anything but her arm brushing his. But the more he tried, the more acutely he felt it: the warmth of her skin, the faint friction of fabric against fabric, the quiet rhythm of her movements syncing with his.
She leaned forward, reaching for another glass, her shoulder nearly against his chest. For a moment, he caught the faint scent of her—something floral, something soft, too intimate for such a small space. His hand stilled in the water, and she noticed. She lingered just a beat longer than necessary before pulling back, as if savoring the hesitation she caused.
He wondered if she did it on purpose—this slow choreography, this quiet dance of proximity. But when he glanced at her, she gave nothing away. Her expression was calm, even distant, though her lips curved faintly as if she held a private amusement.
When he finished the last cup and set it aside, she reached past him again, her arm sliding along his. This time he didn’t move away. He let the contact stay, let it spark beneath his skin, let it remind him of something he shouldn’t want but couldn’t resist.
And when she finally withdrew, folding the towel with careful precision, the space beside him felt achingly empty.
It was then he realized: she hadn’t been helping with the dishes. She had been helping herself to the silence between them, filling it not with words but with the undeniable truth of touch—small, fleeting, but unforgettable.