She had rules. Clear ones. Lines she did not cross, situations she avoided, promises she made to herself and kept. Or so she believed. Then there was him—and the way he used his hands, calm and deliberate, as if every movement had intention behind it.
It wasn’t about what he did, but how he did it. The way his fingers rested on the edge of a table when he spoke. The way his hand guided her gently aside in a crowded room, never lingering, yet never rushed. Each small gesture carried a quiet authority that made her acutely aware of herself.
She caught herself watching his hands more than she should have. Imagining what they might feel like if they ever held her the way they held everything else—with confidence, patience, certainty. The thought alone was enough to make her question the rules she once held so firmly.
Breaking her rules didn’t happen all at once. It came in small concessions. Staying a few minutes longer. Standing a little closer. Letting herself enjoy the way his hand brushed past hers without pulling away. Each moment felt insignificant on its own, but together they formed a pattern she could no longer ignore.
She knew better. She always had. But his hands made her feel safe and undone at the same time, like she could surrender without being exposed. And that contradiction was what ultimately broke her resolve.
She didn’t tell herself she was giving in. She told herself she was just allowing the moment to exist. But deep down, she knew the truth: she was bending her own boundaries because something about him made doing so feel inevitable.
