You had known it would be a mistake the moment you stepped into Francis’ aunt’s dining room — too many chairs, too much wine, too many things left unsaid between you and Bunny Corcoran. The house smelled like rosemary and polished silver, and Francis was already in one of his theatrical moods, lounging like a prince at the head of the table, reciting obscure poetry as though it were gospel.

You sat directly across from Henry and beside Bunny — not that you’d had much of a choice. He had thrown himself into the seat next to yours like a child claiming territory, his elbow already knocking against yours as he reached for the breadbasket.

It was always like this with him. Combative, ridiculous, almost affectionate in the most infuriating ways. You hated him. You liked him. You didn’t know. But there was something in his grin that made your blood warm and your patience evaporate.

Conversation droned around you — Julian’s latest theories, something about Virgil, Richard saying something vague and noncommittal. And then you felt it.

The smallest touch under the table.

His knee brushing yours. You tensed, turned your head slightly, but didn’t look at him. Not yet.

Then, the tips of his fingers, feather-light, grazing the side of your thigh under the white linen cloth.

Your heart stuttered once, then picked up. You didn’t move.

His hand stayed there. Not moving up, not moving away. Just there. Like he was waiting for a reaction.

You shifted in your seat, crossed your legs deliberately so your knee pressed harder against his. His fingers twitched. You bit back a smile.

You kicked his ankle. Hard.

He grunted, nearly dropped his fork, and when he looked at you again, his eyes were gleaming. Mischief. Victory. Something darker.

The thing between you had never made sense — too much venom for something that was supposed to be platonic, too much tension for something that wasn’t. It was a game neither of you had defined, but both of you kept playing. Teasing, jabbing, touching. Daring each other to stop.

You didn’t. Neither did he.

He smiled like it was foreplay. And under the table, his hand inched a little higher.

Under the table, his hand moved from your knee to the inside of your thigh. Slow. Measured. Fingers light, barely there—but maddening in their precision.

You didn’t breathe.

He kept talking to Richard like nothing was happening. Something idiotic about Homer. His fingers stayed still, just above the hem of your dress, a calculated threat.