She turns too fast and collides with me.
The contact is soft — barely more than warmth and breath — but it hits deeper than it should. Her chest meets mine, and her hands come up instinctively, gripping my shirt like she forgot how to steady herself. The small pressure of her fingers anchors me with her. For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
The presence in the room settles around us, no longer circling, no longer probing. It feels aligned now, as if proximity has completed a circuit neither of us can see.
Her palms rest against my chest.
Warm.
Alive.
Real.
I can feel the exact shape of her touch through the fabric — the slight curl of her fingers, the hesitant pressure that suggests steadiness rather than retreat. My lungs draw a deeper breath without permission.
She ti
