A Touch Too Close

The morning after the blanket.

I found her already at the kitchen table, a half-eaten piece of toast resting on her plate, eyes on her phone. She looked up when I entered, but the glance was brief.

“Morning,” she said. Her voice was calm, but softer than usual.

“Hey,” I replied, making my way to the sink. The air between us felt padded — not tense, just… overly careful.

She took another bite, chewed slowly, then added, “Thanks for the blanket. I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep.”

I nodded. “You looked cold.”

Her gaze flicked to the edge of the table, then back to her phone. “Still. Thank you.”

She didn’t look me in the eye when she said it.

The moment passed, but it didn’t really leave. It lingered — like steam from a forgotten cup of tea. Something unspoken, just waiting to cool.

The rest of the day moved quietly. She stayed in her room most of the afternoon, and I busied myself with work I didn’t really need to finish. We shared the same space, but not the same time. Just a few words exchanged in the hallway, half-smiles in passing.

By evening, something between us had settled — not quite comfortable, but no longer strained.

The power went out just after dinner.

One second we were rinsing dishes, the next we were standing in stillness, the hum of the refrigerator gone, the lights extinguished. Only the faint city glow outside filtered in through the living room windows.

Seo Yoon made a soft sound — more amused than startled. “I guess that’s our cue for an early night.”

“Maybe it’s just the breaker,” I said, already moving toward the drawer where I kept a few emergency candles. I lit one and placed it on the table. She brought her phone over and turned on the flashlight.

We ended up on the floor by the window, sharing barley tea brewed on the gas stove. The flickering light gave everything a soft, golden haze. It felt removed from time — like we were the only ones in the city still awake.

We talked about small things. She told me about how her apartment in Busan used to lose power during storms and how she’d sit with her younger brother, making up stories until the lights returned.

“I think Kim Ho used to make up half the ghost stories just to scare me,” she said, laughing quietly.

“That explains a lot,” I replied. “He once tried to convince me our laundry room was haunted.”

She laughed again, and I felt it ripple into the quiet around us.

Then, it happened.

She reached over me to grab a pack of tissues on the windowsill. Her hand was aiming for the table — a quick rest, nothing more — but she missed.

She slipped.

And instinct took over.

I caught her before she could fall hard, pulling her against me. One arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other shielding the back of her head.

For a heartbeat, we didn’t move.

She was pressed against my chest, her breath caught somewhere between surprise and something else. My arms were still around her. The candlelight made everything feel softer than it should have.

Neither of us said a word.

And then, the power returned.

A sharp click. The lights blinked on. The refrigerator buzzed back to life. And we were suddenly visible — every inch of closeness exposed.

She pulled back slightly. Her face was still close to mine.

“Ah,” I said, too quickly. “The power’s back on. That’s… good.”

There was a pause.

“We should go to bed,” I added.

Another pause. My brain scrambled.

“I mean—not together. I meant, you go to your bed, and I’ll go to mine.”

She blinked.

“Not my bed. I mean—your room. My room. Separate—”

Seo Yoon burst out laughing.

Not a polite laugh. Not the quiet one I was used to.

This one was real. Bright. Unrestrained. It filled the room.

I stared at her, startled, then smiled despite myself.

The tension unraveled with the sound of her laughter. Like the moment had folded into something lighter.

When she finally caught her breath, she looked at me, still amused. “Goodnight, Aleem.”

“Goodnight,” I said.

And when the door to her room clicked shut, I just stood there — warm, breathless, wondering how something so brief could feel like a turning point.

That night, after she went to bed, I lay awake again.

I kept replaying the moment — the slip, the way she fit against me, the feel of her breath against my collarbone. It had been instinct, I told myself. Reflex. Just a reaction.

But the warmth of it clung to me.

I tried to rationalize it: It didn’t mean anything. It was just a mistake. Just clumsy physics and bad aim.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What if it didn’t feel like a mistake because… I didn’t want it to?