There was tension – not in the way he fidgeted and his long drawn-out laughs, but – in the way he controled his actions around you.
You felt the way he nudged you, leaving sporadic and lingering traces of being pushed away, and you remembered the charming brace-around-the-shoulder moves he used to pull when you were in the university. You saw his hand pull away before he gave you a familiar slap borne from laughter, saw him notice that your legs were showing and that a slap as a sign of jest was inappropriate. You pushed away the memory of him playing that juvenile firetruck game, his fingers crawling up your legs, instructing you to say red light where you wanted him to stop but argued that the firetruck doesn’t stop for any red light when you asked him to stop at your knee cap. You laughed like a donkey and pulled away when he chimed in how your skewed ribbon was a temptation waiting to be unlaced, and you pushed away the thought of what he can do with his fingers.