You noticed it on your first date. He picked a quiet little pub—dim lights, soft music, easy conversation. Mid-sentence, his hand slipped over yours. No comment, no gesture—just his thumb gently brushing your skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. It stayed there—through the meal, until you left. Then his hand moved to your back as you walked to the door.

From that night on, the touch never stopped. A pinky hooked around yours. A hand on your hip in line. Fingers brushing your spine. Quiet, constant contact—never showy, always grounding. You thought it might fade. It didn’t. Years later, his hand still finds your skin in sleep, drawn to you like instinct.

Once, curled on the couch, you finally asked, “Why do you always have to be touching me?” Eyes closed, he murmured, “Dunno. Feels like I can breathe better when I’ve got a hand on you.”