“Did either of you even think through him coming to my school?” she continues, her frustration building again.
Under the table, her knee brushes mine.
The contact is brief.
Accidental.
But the moment it happens, my attention drops.
Her leg shifts slightly as she continues talking, unaware of the way the movement lingers against mine. The fabric of her jeans presses lightly against my knee.
I should move.
Instead, my leg stays where it is.
Octavia is still speaking, her voice tight with irritation as she gestures faintly with her fork. Her parents are focused on their plates, on the conversation she’s throwing at them.
No one is watching the space beneath the table.
Slowly, deliberately, my hand lowers from the edge of the table to my lap.
For a moment I hesitate.
Then my fingers shift sideways, brushing against the side of her thigh.
The reaction is immediate.
Octavia’s words cut off mid-sentence.
Her shoulders stiffen, her breath catching just enough that I feel the change beside me, her fork freezing halfway to her plate.
My hand doesn’t move away.
Instead, my palm settles more firmly against her thigh, the pressure light but unmistakable through the denim. My fingers curl slightly, holding her there in place.
Across the table, Steph looks up.
“Were you going to finish that rant?” she asks, curious.
Octavia’s mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out.
Under the table, my grip tightens just enough to remind her I’m still there, my thumb shifting faintly along the side of her leg, the small movement hidden completely by the tablecloth.
Her breathing grows uneven.
For a moment I wait.
Tell them.
Tell them exactly what your stepbrother is doing under the dinner table.
Tell your parents why you suddenly can’t talk.
The opportunity sits right there in front of her.
Instead, she swallows.
“No,” she says quietly.
