He noticed it before he even realized she was watching him. The slow, deliberate way her fingertip circled the rim of her wine glass—soft, rhythmic, almost absent-minded, as if she were lost in thought. But when her eyes lifted and locked with his, he knew there was nothing accidental about it. The pause between each motion, the faint curl at the corner of her lips—it was an invitation disguised as a casual gesture.
The bar was noisy, but in that moment, everything around them seemed to fade. She leaned slightly closer, her perfume mixing with the scent of red wine, and slid her hand just a few inches across the table. When her fingers brushed the back of his hand, she didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, she let them rest there, warm and steady, as if she was testing how long it would take for him to react.
It wasn’t about the touch itself—it was the awareness it created. His pulse picked up, his thoughts scattered. She spoke about something—he couldn’t remember what—but her hand remained where it was, making every word feel loaded. Then, with the same unhurried grace, she let her fingertip slip from his skin and return to her glass. That’s when he understood: she wasn’t just holding a conversation. She was holding him exactly where she wanted him—waiting, wondering, and unable to think of anything else.