Chapter 13: Hands That Speak
Monday evening.
The apartment was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the desk lamp and the city lights outside.
I was sitting on the couch, scrolling through notes, when Alex came in carrying two mugs of tea.
"Here," he said softly, setting one beside me.
Our fingers brushed briefly as he handed it to me.
I froze.
Heat rushed to my chest, and I quickly tried to look anywhere but at him.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he lingered, leaning slightly closer than before, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body.
"Ethan…" he said quietly.
I looked up, meeting his eyes.
There was something in that gaze—soft, patient, but filled with intent.
Before I could react, his hand brushed against mine again, lingering this time longer, almost asking for permission.
My pulse quickened.
I wanted to pull away. I wanted to act normal.
But… I couldn't.
"I… Alex, maybe we shouldn't—" I started, but my words faltered.
He shook his head slightly, a faint smile on his lips.
"Why not?" he whispered.
"Does it feel wrong?"
My chest tightened.
It didn't feel wrong. It felt… too right.
Then, without another word, his hand moved to gently rest over mine.
The warmth of his palm pressed lightly, and my heart leapt.
It was a small, deliberate touch, but enough to make my stomach twist with something I didn't have a name for yet.
We stayed like that for a long, tense moment.
Close. Intimate. A silent conversation flowing through the simple contact of our hands.
Finally, I pulled back slightly, trying to regain composure.
"I… I should finish my notes," I muttered.
Alex didn't move. He just gave me a soft, almost teasing smile.
And in that look, I knew:
this was only the beginning.
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