The night had settled, thick and warm, wrapping the world in a hush that made every breath, every movement feel heavier. The garden, once alive with golden light, was now bathed in silver, the moon casting its glow over the wooden path, the roses, the quiet house behind us.
You sat beside me on the porch steps, your shoulder just barely touching mine. Neither of us spoke, but the silence wasn't empty. It was charged, filled with something unspoken, something waiting to be understood.
I turned my head slightly, studying the way the moonlight traced the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your skin. You must have felt my gaze because you breathed in deeply, like steadying yourself before speaking.
"Do you ever think about how a single touch can stay with you?" you asked, your voice soft, almost lost to the wind.
I swallowed, the weight of your words settling in my chest. "What do you mean?"
You hesitated for a moment, then lifted your hand, letting your fingers hover near mine. "Like this." And then, slowly, deliberately, you touched my palm, your fingertips barely pressing against my skin. It wasn't much, just the lightest brush, but it sent a quiet shiver through me, as if my body recognized something before my mind could.
I looked down at our hands, at the space between our fingers that was slowly disappearing. "Some touches don't fade," I murmured. "They echo."
You turned to me then, your eyes searching mine. "And this?" you whispered. "Will it echo?"
I didn't answer with words. Instead, I let my fingers close around yours, let my thumb trace slow circles against your skin. You exhaled softly, leaning into the moment, into me.
And I knew this wasn't just a touch. It was something deeper, something that would linger long after the night had passed.
Because some touches don't just stay on the skin.
They stay in the soul.