“You don’t have to tell everyone your first and last name,” he says, the same way my brother did all those years ago. “I like it.” He slips his hand into mine and the electrifying slide of his palm against my own acts as a reminder that we haven’t intentionally touched in years. Nothing about it feels friendly or professional, especially when the pad of his thumb slides across my knuckle in a gentle stroke. “I like it too,” he says.
