It was barely a second.

Quick enough to pass as nothing, slow enough that I felt it.

When I handed him my card yesterday, his fingers brushed against mine—just barely, just enough for the warmth to linger. And then, just as I was about to pull away, he held on for the briefest moment. A second too long.

And that damn smile.

Subtle. Almost teasing. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Maybe he did.

I should let it go. I should pretend it didn’t make my heart stutter for half a beat, pretend it didn’t replay in my head later that night when I was trying to fall asleep.

But I don’t let it go.

Instead, I sit at my usual table, tap my pen against my notepad, and let the words spill onto the post-it.

"I handed you my card yesterday, and for a second, you held my hand. I caught that little smile. Honestly, you have to stop messing with me."

- J

The note feels like a challenge.

I press it onto the table beside my empty cup, push back my chair, and head for the door.

This time, I let myself glance toward the counter. Just for a second. Just enough to see if he’s looking.

And maybe it’s my imagination, maybe I’m reading too much into nothing—

But I swear, he’s smiling again.