We were walking down the quiet street, the sun beginning to set, casting a soft golden light over everything. He was telling me a story about something funny his friend had said earlier that day, his voice animated and lighthearted. I was smiling along with him, laughing at all the right moments, but I wasn’t really focusing on the words.
Instead, I was caught up in the little moments between us — the ones that seemed so small but made my heart race. Every time our hands swung close, his knuckles would brush lightly against mine. The first time it happened, I thought it was an accident, but then it happened again. And again.
It wasn’t just the way his hand kept grazing mine that had me so distracted. It was the look in his eyes when he turned to laugh, the way his smile never fully left his lips even when he was serious. He had this softness about him tonight, as if he was relaxed and happy just being with me.
I wanted to say something, to make a witty comment about how our hands kept finding each other, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I just let it happen, the warmth of his skin sending little sparks of excitement up my arm. With each brush, it felt like a conversation was happening beneath the surface — one we weren't quite ready to speak aloud but were slowly starting to feel.
The story he was telling faded into the background of my mind, his voice becoming a soothing rhythm. We walked in step with each other, our shoulders occasionally bumping. The street was almost empty, quiet except for the sound of our footsteps and the distant chirping of birds settling in for the night.
Then, without warning, his hand didn’t just brush against mine. It lingered for a second longer than before, and in that moment, something shifted. My heart skipped a beat, and I glanced up at him, unsure if he noticed. He was still talking, but there was a faint pause, like he was thinking about it too.
Before I could overthink it, I let my fingers curl around his, softly at first, giving him the chance to pull away if he wanted to. But he didn’t. Instead, he gently intertwined his fingers with mine, holding my hand as naturally as if it had been this way all along. His voice trailed off, and when he finally looked at me, his smile was different — softer, more intentional.
“I guess we’ve been trying to do this for a while now, huh?” he said, a playful glint in his eyes.
I couldn’t help but laugh softly, my heart feeling light. “Yeah, I think so.”
We kept walking, our hands now securely clasped, and everything felt different — warmer, more intimate. The conversation came easier now, not just through words but through the way his thumb occasionally brushed over the back of my hand, or the way his arm would bump against mine just enough to feel close. It was like the unspoken connection between us had finally found a voice.
As we neared the end of the street, where we’d usually part ways, he stopped and turned to face me fully. His expression was sincere, his usual teasing grin softened into something more thoughtful.
“I’ve been wanting to hold your hand for a while,” he admitted quietly, his thumb still tracing small circles on my skin.
I smiled, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. “I’ve been waiting for you to do it.”
He laughed softly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe he’d taken so long. “Guess I should’ve told my friend about you instead,” he said with a grin, “because you’re the only one who’s been on my mind.”
And just like that, everything between us felt perfectly clear. There were no more missed moments, no more subtle touches filled with uncertainty. Just us, hand in hand, moving forward together, laughing at how long it took us to get there.
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