He could have touched her hand. That was safe. That was harmless. But he didn’t. He pushed his boundaries, blocked the panic that reared up and leaned over, touching his lips to her forehead. For a moment, he closed his eyes and just felt her smooth skin against his lips, the warmth of her body and the clean scent of the soap he used and which she now smelled of. For a moment, he enjoyed the feel of touching another human being. Of touching a woman.
Until, inside him, the panic won and he had to pull away. But he took with him a gift. A gift he would take out and cherish when the dark winter nights in his lonesome cabin got to be too much. When he wanted to remember what could have been, instead of what was.
Taken from Redemption.