Third Touch

Late nights playing cards were becoming a habit, and she found herself anticipating their ritual too much. He wasn't afraid to touch her—tickle her, elbow her, take a swipe at her with his pillow. She could feel fear under her skin every single time.

But when he brushed gloved fingers against her cheek to tuck a white lovelock behind her ear with the bare ones, she stopped breathing.

"Ah wish ya wouldn't," she told him softly. She stared at her hand, frowning over her cards.

"Chère..." His voice sounded sad and reproachful all at once. "I wish y' would."

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