The first time Damian touched me on purpose, it was not dramatic.
It happened in the kitchen of his apartment on a Thursday night while the kettle boiled and the residual smell of rain still clung to both of our coats. I had been reaching for a second mug. He had been reaching for the same cabinet. Our hands arrived at the same moment, and instead of pulling back the way he had for weeks, he simply adjusted—fingers brushing the side of mine, steady and warm, and then staying there long enough for the contact to become a decision instead of an accident.
I did not pull away either.
The kettle clicked off. Neither of us moved for the tea. The only sound was the low tick of the cooling element and the quieter sound of my pulse trying to climb out of my throat. Damian’s eyes stayed on our ha
