The first time it happens, he thinks it must have been an accident. She’s moving past his chair, her body close enough to graze him, and the faint sweep of her hand trails across his back. It’s quick, fleeting, almost ignorable—yet the warmth lingers longer than it should. He stiffens slightly, uncertain whether to turn and catch her eyes, but she’s already walking away as if nothing unusual occurred. That little moment, however, burrows into him, like a seed planted where it doesn’t belong.
The second time, he knows it can’t be coincidence. Her path is wide enough, her options plenty—yet she chooses to drift just close enough that her fingers can slide along his shoulder blades. It’s not a shove, not even a pat, but something softer, slower, more deliberate. His breath catches, and she doesn’t bother to excuse herself. No words, no apology. Just the quiet weight of intention hidden in the most casual motion. He can feel her claiming a space in his awareness, branding him with a touch she pretends never happened.
By the third time, it’s not about accident or space anymore—it’s about anticipation. He feels her presence before she’s even behind him, the air shifting, his body tensing. When her hand finds him again, it’s firmer this time, a slide across his back that almost pauses before letting go. She leans just close enough that he wonders if she wants him to notice how deliberate it has become. And though she says nothing, her silence is the loudest part—the kind that demands he acknowledge what’s happening between them without either of them daring to name it.