The First Touch
Chapter 7 – The First Touch
The first time Aleem touched Kira, it wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t a confession made with skin.
It was an instinct–simple, careful, and offered like a question.
It happened on a weekday evening when the city felt tired.
Kira had suggested a walk after work. Not as a date, not explicitly. Just: a walk. A neutral thing. A thing people did when they wanted air.
Aleem agreed the way he agreed to most things that felt steady.
They met outside a small park near a row of quiet cafés. The sun was already low, washing the pavement in soft gold. The air carried a faint smell of rain that hadn’t arrived yet.
Kira wore flats and a light cardigan. Aleem wore a plain dark shirt and a watch that looked functional rather than decorative.
They greeted each other without awkwardness.
“Hi,” Kira said.
“Hi,” Aleem replied.
He didn’t lean in. She didn’t step back.
They simply began walking.
For the first ten minutes, they spoke about nothing important.
Work deadlines.
A restaurant someone had recommended.
Aisyah complaining about something that, according to Kira, was “deeply unreasonable.”
Aleem smiled at that, the corners of his mouth lifting like he could already picture Aisyah’s expression.
“Your friends sound like they take care of you,” he said.
Kira’s gaze stayed forward, but her voice softened.
“They do.”
Aleem nodded once.
“My friends do too,” he said simply.
No defensiveness.
No ego.
Just fact.
They walked past a row of windows reflecting the street–two figures moving side by side, not hurried, not pressed together.
Kira noticed their reflections only because she was used to noticing reflections–mirrors in cafés, glass doors, the subtle reminder of how a person looked when they weren’t trying to be seen.
They looked… calm.
They looked like people who belonged to themselves.
A quiet comfort settled between them.
Not silence that needed filling.
Silence that simply existed.
At some point, Kira slowed near a corner where the pavement narrowed. A cyclist passed, too close. Kira stepped slightly toward the inner side of the walkway.
Aleem adjusted without thinking, moving closer to the road side.
It was a small thing.
But Kira noticed.
Care expressed through positioning.
They continued walking.
The park opened up into a path lined with trees. Leaves stirred lightly above them. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing a familiar melody on a guitar–soft, imperfect, human.
Kira’s phone buzzed once in her bag.
She didn’t reach for it.
Aleem’s phone buzzed too.
He didn’t reach for his either.
They kept walking.
Kira exhaled slowly, as if releasing something she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Aleem glanced at her, then looked away again–respectful, unintrusive.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
Kira’s lips curved.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” she said.
Aleem nodded, almost relieved.
“Good.”
Another stretch of silence.
Then Kira spoke again, voice low.
“I like this,” she admitted.
Aleem didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant.
“Me too,” he replied.
The path curved. They turned with it.
Kira stepped on a patch of uneven ground and stumbled slightly–not enough to fall, but enough for her body to tilt.
Aleem’s hand moved automatically.
He caught her elbow first–steady, firm, careful.
Kira regained balance.
Her breath hitched, not from fear, but from the sudden reality of contact.
Aleem let go immediately.
Not because he didn’t want to hold.
Because he didn’t want to assume.
“You okay?” he asked.
Kira looked at him.
She saw, in the way he’d released her, the same principle she had been noticing since the beginning.
Space.
Consent.
A kind of tenderness that didn’t demand proof.
“I’m okay,” she said.
They kept walking.
A few minutes later, the wind shifted colder.
Kira rubbed her hands together absentmindedly.
Aleem noticed.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A bit,” she admitted.
He didn’t offer his jacket dramatically. He didn’t make it into a gesture.
He simply moved closer.
Not touching.
Just near.
Sharing warmth like sharing space.
They reached a small bench facing a patch of grass where the last light of the day lay across the ground like a blanket.
Kira sat.
Aleem sat beside her, leaving a respectful gap.
Not too far.
Not too close.
Kira stared at the sky through the trees.
Aleem looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up.
He spoke quietly.
“You know,” he said, “I’m not good at rushing things.”
Kira’s voice came soft, almost amused.
“Good,” she said.
He smiled.
The air between them felt thin with a different kind of awareness now.
Not tension.
Potential.
Kira shifted slightly on the bench, her fingers resting on her own knee.
Aleem’s hand rested on his thigh–open, relaxed.
They sat like that for a while, the world continuing around them.
Then, without a speech, without a warning, Aleem moved his hand slowly.
Not reaching.
Offering.
His fingers hovered near hers–close enough that she could feel the heat, far enough that she could refuse without effort.
Kira’s breath slowed.
She turned her head, meeting his gaze.
He looked calm.
Not hungry.
Not entitled.
Just present.
Kira lifted her hand.
Their fingers touched lightly.
Then she let them lace.
It wasn’t a grip.
It was a resting place.
A quiet agreement.
Outside, a couple walked past, laughing. A dog barked once in the distance. The guitar continued somewhere behind them.
Kira didn’t feel claimed.
She felt… accompanied.
Aleem didn’t tighten his hold.
He didn’t test the boundary.
He simply stayed.
爱是轻轻的，不是抓紧的。
Love is gentle, not grasping.
Kira’s thumb brushed once over his knuckle–an unconscious confirmation.
Aleem exhaled, slow.
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet enough to belong only to her.
“Thank you,” he said.
Kira blinked.
“For what?”
“For letting me,” he answered.
Kira stared at their hands.
Then she smiled, small and true.
“You didn’t take,” she said. “You asked.”
Aleem’s grip stayed soft.
“I always want to ask,” he replied.
They sat on the bench until the sky darkened completely.
When they finally stood, they didn’t rush to label anything.
They walked back the way they came, hand in hand, their reflections trailing beside them in the café windows–two people intact, choosing proximity.
Not because they needed it.
Because they wanted it.