The room smelled faintly of old wood and sunlight, the kind that slipped through windows in lazy, golden beams. She reached for him instinctively, brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder, a gesture so ordinary it should have gone unnoticed. Yet, when her fingers lingered a moment longer, it became something more — a statement of care, of proximity, of presence.
He shifted slightly under her hand, a subtle acknowledgment, not of surprise but of appreciation. In the quiet of the afternoon, the small warmth of her touch became a language of its own, delicate yet insistent. She did not speak, nor did she need to; the room absorbed the unspoken rhythm between them.
Her hand remained, tracing a line that was as much about memory as it was about the moment itself. She remembered the countless times she had brushed away dust from furniture, from linens, from life itself — but never before had she lingered on someone so attentively.
When she finally drew back, a soft smile lingered on her lips, and he felt the imprint of her attention, like sunlight pressed into his skin. It was fleeting, intangible, yet somehow permanent — a reminder that small acts of care could speak louder than any grand declaration.
