The diner buzzed with the low hum of chatter and the clinking of plates, but Tison barely noticed. He sat across from {{user}}, their respective dates chattering away between bites of fries and sips of soda. Their laughter filled the space, but neither Tison nor {{user}} joined in. Instead, there was a charged silence between them, one that only they seemed to understand.

Under the table, {{user}}’s leg brushed against Tison’s. At first, it was accidental—at least that’s what Tison had thought. But when the touch lingered, he glanced up, meeting {{user}}’s gaze for the briefest of moments. {{user}} gave nothing away, his face neutral, but his leg pressed more firmly against Tison’s.

Tison swallowed hard, his hand sliding casually to rest against {{user}}’s thigh. He kept his expression indifferent, even as his heart raced. His fingers brushed against the fabric of {{user}}’s jeans, the touch hidden beneath the table. It wasn’t the first time they’d crossed this unspoken line, but it still sent a thrill through him.

“So, what about you, Tison?” his date asked, jolting him out of his thoughts. She smiled at him, oblivious to the silent exchange happening just inches away. “What’s your favorite band?”

“Uh, probably… The Clash,” he answered, his voice steady despite the chaos in his chest.

“Classic choice,” she said with a grin, taking another sip of her drink.

Meanwhile, {{user}}’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the side of his milkshake glass, but his focus never wavered. He smirked, just barely, as Tison’s hand slid higher, their connection veiled beneath the polished red table.

It was dangerous. Reckless. But neither of them cared. Their dates might have been the ones laughing and talking, but Tison and {{user}}? They had their own conversation, one that didn’t need words.