She said no for the first time on a Thursday.

They were at her place. He'd cooked dinner—something with salmon and asparagus, because he was the kind of boyfriend who cooked dinner. They'd cleaned up together, his hand constantly grazing her hip as they moved around the kitchen. Then they'd settled on the couch, and his hand had found its way under her shirt, resting on the bare skin of her stomach.

She usually liked that. Tonight, something felt tight in her chest.

"Can we just watch the movie?" she asked.

His hand stopped moving.

"We are watching the movie."

"Your hand is under my shirt."

"It's just resting."

"George."

He pulled his hand out. Held both hands up like she'd caught him stealing.

"Sorry. Sorry, I didn't—I wasn't trying to—"

"I know. I just want to watch the movie."

"Okay."

They watched the movie. But his leg bounced. His whole body felt restless next to her. Every few minutes, his hand would drift toward her—toward her shoulder, her knee, her wrist—and then he'd pull it back like he'd touched a hot stove.

By the end of the movie, she felt worse than if he'd just kept touching her.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine."

"You seem fidgety."

"I'm just—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not good at sitting still. I like touching you. It makes me feel connected. When I can't, I feel like I'm floating."

She didn't know what to say to that.

"That's not your problem," he added quickly. "That's my problem. I'm not saying you should—I'm just explaining."

"Okay."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

"You seem mad."

"I'm not mad, George. I just said no to something. It doesn't have to be a whole thing."

He nodded. But his jaw was tight. And when she leaned over to kiss him goodnight, he kissed her back like he was trying to prove something.

She pretended not to notice.