She slides her hand down his forearm just before interlocking hands. She likes resting her head on his shoulder. She gives him looks of longing, passion, support. They exchange glances, trying to send the right wavelength to one another. He doesn’t know what to do with hers.
They aren’t dating, never discussed whether they’re even an item. He doesn’t want to assume. He wants to make a move. He doesn’t know what to do, but doesn’t want to be told what to do.
He wants this to grow but doesn’t want to screw with its dynamic.
He wishes the answers were easy. Nothing worth having comes easy, however.