The first time their hands touched, both instinctively withdrew, mumbling awkward apologies, and avoiding eye-contact. They were walking back to the car together, walking down the forest track. The sun was not shining, but the temperature was still reasonable. The bird-song, the smell of the pinewood, and the absolute silence otherwise placed them alone in the world. No one else mattered just now; they had each other.

The second time their hands touched, they looked at each other, both astonished; but quickly - too quickly - fell back to talking about work, family, and friends. They had worked together for a year now, and this was their first time alone, walking back to the car so they could drive back to work for the afternoon. A school outing which they had been staffing, but from which they had to return, each for a different reason, gave them the opportunity to talk of other things, with no one to overhear or to jump to wrong - or right - conclusions.

The third time their hands touched, he held on to hers, and pulled her to a stop. She was reluctant to stop. She would be late for her meeting; he would be late for class. He refused to let her go. She relented just before he gave in in embarrassment; he had not misread her, after all. They stopped, facing each other, him holding her hand in his, and neither said a word. They simply looked into each other's eyes; and the world, and the forest, and the track, and the trees, and the bird-song all but disappeared.