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Summary
"I know when a touch is platonic and when it's sexual in nature." You frown, your eyes flicking downwards to his hand still outstretched. "And I also know that you were being careful when you touched my hand. But that doesn't change the intention behind it."
"You don't know anything," he retorts back, like spitting acid. Or more accurately, poison.
"Yes, I do." Your voice remains calm, steady, unlike the erratic pulses and thumps in his ear. "Give me a 'small touch'"—you make air quotes—"then. Clearly, you think that a small touch means platonic."
He sneers. "Alright then, dearest."
