Anya moves on to Jane's shoulder. Jane's free arm slides off the narrow table.
Hangs there. Just past the edge. Her fingers loose, relaxed.
My right arm is doing the same thing on my side. Dangling off the table because there's nowhere else for it to go. We're that close.
Jane shifts—just a small adjustment, settling deeper into the table—and her pinky grazes mine.
Barely a touch. Skin against skin for maybe a quarter of a second.
Neither of us reacts. Outwardly.
Inwardly, every single nerve I have goes quiet. Like the moment before a penalty shot. Everything narrows to one point.
I look at her.
Her eyes are closed. Her expression issoft, open, completely unguarded.
She looks peaceful. Trusting.
My hand moves.
Slow. Deliberate. I close the small gap between us and hook my pinky around hers.
Not accidental this time.
Jane's eyes open. She turns her head toward me—just slightly, just enough—and finds me already looking at her. Something shifts in her expression. Surprise, yes. But not alarm. Not even a question.
She just...lets it happen. Her pinky curls around mine too, warm and steady, and holds.
The contact sends something through my chest that has nothing to do with nerve endings. Three years I haven't let anyone touch me like this. Not casually. Not gently. Not like I'm someone worth holding onto.
Her thumb strokes across my knuckle. Once. Twice.
I feel it everywhere.
Anya works Jane's waist. Jane's eyes flutter closed again, but her grip on my finger stays firm—tighter, even, as Anya hits another spot and Jane's whole body goes slack with a soft, broken exhale that makes my blood run hot.
I want to be the one doing that to her. I want to put my mouth on the spot Anya just touched and feel that sound vibrate against my lips.
I also want to abandon higher reasoning entirely, hoist her off this table, and carry her back to the casita like a caveman who’s just discovered fire and poor impulse control.
The thought is so vivid, so physical, that I have to shift on the table and pray the sheet holds.
"Almost done," Anya murmurs to Jane.
Jane's thumb strokes my knuckle again. Deliberate. A question and an answer at the same time.
Christoph finishes my back, steps away. I don't move. Don't let go.
Anya eases Jane's other arm back to her side—gently, professionally—and Jane's fingers slide from mine.
The loss of contact hits like a door slamming shut.
"Take your time getting up," Anya says. "Water and fruits are available outside."
The therapists leave. The door clicks closed.
The room settles into silence.
