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Maia doesn’t think much of it at first. She’s a bartender, and in the process of passing over drinks and food to patrons you touch a lot of hands. In a packed bar full of drunk people you brush against a lot of sides (and a lot of backs and fronts if she’s being honest, though less when she’s carrying drinks in front of her). Accidental touches are so common that she doesn’t even register than most of the time.
She isn’t sure how long Isabelle’s slim fingers have been intentionally lingering on her own, though once she does notice she also realizes that Isabelle has been the one always coming up to get drinks for whatever group she’s there with, not any of the others. Once Maia starts paying attention a lot of things click into place that she originally wrote off without much thought.
Now that she sees them, however, Maia can’t see anything else. The playful smile Isabelle’s lips curl into while she makes small talk, waiting while Maia mixes Magnus’ overly complicated cocktail. Maia wonders if that’s intentional, too.
But now that she knows - or thinks she knows, thinks she’s reading into things the way Izzy always intended - Maia starts leaning into them. She thanks Isabelle for the tip slipped into the jar on the bar with a touch on the back of her hand that lasts much longer than strictly necessary. She hovers in Isabelle’s personal space while taking empty glasses from her table.
Isabelle begins to stay long after the others have gone, just talking to Maia while she cleans up and closes the place down. They walk together afterward, sometimes with Maia walking Isabelle to the Institute, other times with Izzy walking Maia home instead. No matter where they’re going they always walk close enough that their shoulders and arms touch, until soon their hands link together between them, no longer ‘accidental’ grazes but long, meaningful contact.
One night Maia invites Izzy inside, and the touches are no longer confined to hands. They move to arms and sides and backs, hesitant and unsure at first as they wander and explore, before growing more insistent.
The line shifts from one drawn between unaware and intentional touches to one drawn between public and private touches. Fingers running softly through hair while sitting around watching movies with friends, and later pulling and tugging, needy and demanding in private. Hands that toe the line of inappropriate resting places walking out of the bar that dip lower, under jeans and up dresses the moment they’re away from prying eyes.
Then there are different touches altogether. A reassuring hand on a shoulder as Maia comes up behind Izzy in a dark alley with a small demon infestation. The feeling of a leather jacket against the denim of her own while they fight back-to-back. The pressure of a palm pressed over a fresh wound. The comfort of a hand resting on the small of Maia’s back while Maia kicks out a few assholes who won’t take no for an answer after hitting on a quiet new werewolf recruit. Isabelle knows Maia can handle them herself so she doesn’t step in but Maia finds the silent support is reassuring just the same.
They share what seems to Maia to be dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of different touches, and every time Maia thinks she’s experienced them all a new one surprises her. Before Isabelle, Maia hated surprises, but now they’re starting to grow on her.