The silence between us was gentle. Companionable. The kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy or awkward—it just was. Like the hush after a song you didn’t want to end.
We’d finished dessert—tiramisu, impossibly light—and I’d managed to convince myself that this was just a dinner. Just two people talking. Laughing. Existing in a bubble of flickering candlelight and quiet music.
But then something shifted again.
Subtle. Barely there.
His hand reached out across the white linen tablecloth, fingers brushing mine. It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a real touch. Just a gentle sweep of skin on skin. But it sent a tremor through me like someone had plucked a string tied straight to my ribs.
I looked up, startled—and he was already watching me.
His fingers curled around mine, tentative at first. Then firmer. As if he needed to hold on to something before the courage slipped away.
And for a moment, he didn’t speak.
His thumb moved slowly over the back of my hand, the silence stretching between
