Episode 9: The first touch
568 Words
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It happened on a Tuesday.
Not planned. Not anticipated. Emily had been reaching for a book on the top shelf of her office—a critical edition of Robinson's work she'd been meaning to assign for next semester—and her fingers had barely grazed the spine when his voice came from behind her.
"Let me."
He was closer than she'd realized. She hadn't heard him enter—the door was open, as always, but his footsteps were nearly silent. Now he stood behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body through the space between them.
His arm reached past hers. His fingers found the book, pulled it gently from the shelf.
"Here."
He placed it in her hand. His fingers brushed against hers.
A single point of contact. The side of his index finger against the inside of her wrist. Barely a touch at all.
One second. Two.
Neither of them moved.
His hand remained where it was, his finger resting against her pulse. His breath, warm against her hair, was very slow and very steady.
"Your heart," he said quietly. "It's racing."
Emily couldn't speak.
"Does it always race like this?" His thumb moved slightly against her wrist. "Or is it just when I'm near you?"
She should step away. She should thank him for the book and retreat to her desk and restore the careful distance between them. She should do any number of professional, appropriate things.
Instead, she said: "Just when you're near me."
His breath caught.
"Emily."
Her name. Not Dr. Addison. Not a question or a demand or a plea. Just her name, spoken in his voice, low and quiet and wondering.
"Yes," she whispered. "Malachi."
His hand moved from her wrist to her hand. His fingers interlaced with hers. His palm pressed against her palm.
"Your hands," he said. "I've been trying not to look at them for two months."
His thumb traced across her knuckles. Slow. Deliberate.
"I've been trying not to imagine what they'd feel like." Another pause. "I failed."
He lifted her hand to his face.
Not to his lips—he didn't kiss her palm, didn't press his mouth against her skin. Just held it against his cheek, his eyes closed, his breath warm against her fingers.
Emily stood very still.
His skin was warm. His jaw, slightly rough with evening shadow, pressed against her palm. His eyelashes, dark against his cheek, trembled slightly with each breath.
"Malachi."
"Just—" His voice was barely audible. "Just let me have this. Just for a moment."
She let him.
The moment stretched. His cheek grew warm beneath her hand. His grip on her fingers loosened slightly, not releasing but relaxing, as if he was memorizing the shape of her.
Then he opened his eyes.
"Thank you," he said. "For not pulling away."
He released her hand. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers lingered against hers for a moment longer, and then he stepped back.
"I should go."
"Yes."
He moved toward the door. At the threshold, he paused.
"Emily."
"Yes."
"My grandmother's cottage—the one on the postcard. The lighthouse." A pause. "Someday, I'd like to take you there."
He left before she could respond.
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Emily sat alone in her office, the book still in her hand, her wrist still warm from his touch.
She didn't move for a long time.
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- Writer
