Katherine's fingers were cool against his skin delicate, manicured, familiar in a way that felt rehearsed rather than intimate. The touch was light, almost careful, as though she were testing whether he would pull away or let her linger.
Martin didn't pull away.
He also didn't turn his hand over to hold hers.
He let her fingertips rest on the back of his knuckles while he stared at the half-eaten beef Wellington on his plate. The pastry had gone limp, the Madeira sauce congealing around the edges. The string quartet in the corner had shifted to something slower, more melancholic—Chopin, probably. The notes floated over the table like expensive perfume: beautiful, expensive, and completely unable to mask the tension underneath.
Katherine leaned closer, her voice dropping to the soft, private register she used when they were alone in public.
"You're quiet tonight."
He didn't answer.
She tried again, thumb brushing once—tentative, hopeful—across his knuckles.
