The dinner party ended the way these things do: too much wine, too many almost-confessions, the slow drift toward separate Ubers and the vague promise of “we should do this again soon.” I lingered in the kitchen under pretense of helping with dishes. So did he.Eventually it was just us, sleeves rolled, hands in warm soapy water, passing plates back and forth with the kind of choreographed intimacy that comes from not looking directly at each other. The radio played something slow and French. Outside, November wind rattled the windows.We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. Every plate transferred carried a small static charge; every accidental brush of wrists left a residue of heat. When the last glass was dried and set in the rack, the silence felt suddenly huge.He leaned back against the counter, drying his hands on a dish towel with deliberate slowness. I stayed at the sink, fingers curled around the edge, watching droplets slide down the stainless steel like they had somewhere urgent to be.“You missed a spot,” he said, voice low.I glanced over my shoulder. He wasn’t looking at the counter. He was looking at me.I turned fully then, back to the sink, apron still tied, pulse loud in my ears. He took one step, then another, until he was close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw catching the under-cabinet lights.He reached past me—slowly, giving me every chance to move—and flicked off the faucet I’d left trickling. The sudden quiet was startling. His hand stayed where it was, resting on the counter beside mine, not touching, just claiming adjacent space.We stood like that for a long moment, breathing the same small pocket of air that smelled of dish soap and red wine and something indefinably warmer. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than breath.“Tell me if this is a terrible idea.”I answered by turning my palm upward on the counter between us. He covered it with his own immediately, fingers sliding between mine like they belonged there. The contact was simple, almost chaste, and it undid me completely.He lifted my hand, turned it over, studied the faint blue veins at my wrist as if reading a map. Then he bent and pressed his lips there—just once, open-mouthed, warm. I felt the soft drag of his tongue tasting my pulse and had to close my eyes.When he straightened, his thumb rested over the exact spot he’d kissed, as if holding the sensation in place. Neither of us moved to take it further. We didn’t need to. Some moments are perfect in their restraint; they linger longer than any climax.Eventually the host’s distant laughter floated down the hallway, reminding us the world still existed. He released my hand slowly, finger by finger, then reached past me again to untie my apron strings with the same deliberate care. The bow fell apart under his hands like a secret giving way.He stepped back, just far enough to let the air flow between us again. “Drive safe,” he said, voice rough at the edges.I nodded, not trusting mine.In the car later, windows fogged from nothing more dramatic than my own breathing, I could still taste him on my wrist—faint salt and the soft aftertaste of possibility. Some flavors don’t need to be chased. They stay on the tongue long after the meal is over, reminding you exactly what you’re hungry for next time.I smiled into the dark and started the engine, already counting the days until someone would throw another dinner party no one truly wanted to attend.