Niklas

His name was Niklas, and he hated being touched without warning.
Not because it was painful—quite the opposite. Because it disrupted order. His order. A world where everything was measured: distances, intonations, glances. He allowed one to look—even too long. He knew what he looked like, and he used it as a shield. A gaze could be withstood.

The assessment too.

Touch - no.

You noticed it before anyone else. How he always chose the edge of the table. How he held his body so that there was air between him and the person he was talking to. How he never touched first.
And instead of backing down, you became interested.

There was no plea for salvation. He was whole, collected, confident to the point of irritation. That was precisely what was so captivating—as if he existed behind glass, and everyone was allowed to look, but no one was given the power to verify whether it was real.
You broke the rule casually.
She simply placed her hand on his shoulder, leaning in to say something almost unimportant.

He flinched—barely, but you felt the glitch. Niklas turned around abruptly. The calm confidence was gone, leaving a suppressed anger.

“Take your hand away,” he said.
You didn't obey right away. A second—and that was enough.

“Why?” you asked evenly. “Are you made of glass?”

This was the second mistake.
He stepped back as if you had pushed him. A cold void appeared between you.

"You have no right," he said harshly. "You don't understand what you're doing."

“I understand,” you replied. “I’m just curious.”

The word hung between you. Interesting—the most dangerous excuse.
“You’re playing,” he said.

• No. I'm checking.
  “I don’t need to be tested,” his voice dropped. “I’m not an experiment.”

He was really angry - because he had lost control.

"Stay away from me," he said. "If you can't respect boundaries."

And you suddenly realized: it wasn’t about touching.
You came too close not to the body, but to the habit of being out of reach.