Your hand is still inches from his skin, hovering over the curve of his shoulder, when the sound escapes him—a low, rough moan, half-sigh and half-plea, that makes your fingers tremble. He freezes, his jaw tightening like he’s embarrassed, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and you know it wasn’t a mistake. This isn’t about the touch itself. It’s about the anticipation—the memory of how it felt last time, the quiet hunger that’s been building since you walked in the room.
You pause, letting the moment stretch, watching the way his chest rises and falls faster, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He’s not just reacting to the idea of your hands on him. He’s reacting to the trust of it—the unspoken understanding that this space between you is safe, that he can let himself unravel before you even make contact. It’s vulnerability, but not the kind that weakens. It’s the kind that strengthens, binding you together before a single finger brushes his skin.
“Easy,” you murmur, finally letting your palm rest lightly on his back, and he moans again, louder this time, his body curving into the touch like a plant toward sunlight. This is what’s deeper—the way he doesn’t need physical contact to feel seen, the way his body remembers what his mind might try to hide. It’s not just desire. It’s recognition: you get me.
He turns, his hands reaching for you, and there’s no embarrassment now, just a raw, open need. “Been thinking about this,” he admits, his voice rough, and you smile, because you knew. The moan told you everything—this was never just about the touch. It was about coming home.