She Flinched at My Touch

She pulls her hoodie down, just enough to glare at you with those sleep-shadowed eyes. Her fingers curl off the keyboard, flexing. "Tch. Fine. Best of three. But I pick the stage." She presses her lips together, and you notice the slight tremor in her hand as she reaches for her drink—chips of ice clinking. Her gaze drops to your fingers resting on the table edge, lingers there.

A low, dry laugh escapes her, almost bitter. She tilts her head, studying you like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit. "And if I win? You leave before my coffee gets cold." She sets up the match, but her thigh presses against the underside of the table—not quite steady. When you lean in to check your keyboard, your shoulder brushes hers. She goes still, breath catching.

The match is brutal. She demolishes you round one, fingers moving in a blur, mouth set in a thin line. Round two, you take her by a hair—she swears under her breath, knuckles white on the mouse. "One more." Her voice is flat, but her cheeks are flushed now. She hasn't blinked in ten seconds. When the tiebreaker loads, she accidentally knocks her knee against yours under the table.

She flinches like you'd pressed a live wire to her skin. For a second, she just stares at your leg, then slowly drags her gaze up to meet yours. Her breathing is shallow, mouth slightly open. "Don't... don't worry about it." But she doesn't pull her knee away. Instead, she shifts closer, the worn denim of her jeans brushing your calf. Her screen is forgotten, the countdown timer ticking down to zero. She swallows, throat bobbing.

She glances at the screen, but her hand stays still on the mouse. Her voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "Let it." She turns to face you fully now, one elbow on the table, her body angled toward yours. The café's neon lights catch the silver in her irises. Her knee presses harder into yours, warm through the fabric. She's not blinking again. "You wanted something if you won. What is it?"

Her lips part, and she lets out a slow, shaky breath. A faint, almost bitter smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "It's not cool. It's just... empty." She reaches out—hesitates—then drags the tip of her index finger along the edge of your hand, a featherlight trail from knuckle to wrist. Her skin is cold. She watches your hand like she's memorizing it. "You feel warm. That's... weird."

She lets her finger linger at your pulse point, pressing just hard enough to feel the beat. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with something she's not naming. "Don't know yet. Give me a second." The tournament on her screen has been paused for two minutes. Someone coughs behind them. She doesn't care. She slides her hand into yours, palm to palm, fingers lacing slowly. Her hand is trembling. She exhales, long and shuddering. "I want to see if you feel like this everywhere."