Jason didn’t expect much when he accepted the invitation to the small dinner party. It was one of those casual get-togethers hosted by his mother’s friend, mostly full of people twice his age, sipping wine and talking about books he’d never read. He only came because his mother insisted—and he had nothing better to do that Friday night.
But when he walked in, he saw her.
Her name was Marianne. Late sixties, maybe early seventies—but she didn’t wear her age. She owned it. Her presence was magnetic in a quiet, smoky sort of way. She wore a deep plum dress that hugged her waist and a thin gold chain around her neck. Her hair was shoulder-length, silver with streaks of dark honey, and as Jason watched her from across the room, he noticed how often her fingers slipped up into it, pushing it back slowly, thoughtfully…sensually.
It wasn’t careless. It was intentional.
He was seated next to her at dinner. Their conversation started innocently—books, travel, how everyone knew his mother since high school. But the way she looked at him wasn’t the way someone’s friend should look at a younger man.
He made her laugh once—a half-honest joke about how old wine made him blush faster than compliments. She chuckled, tilted her head back, and ran her fingers through her hair again.
That movement.
Jason swallowed. Something about it hit him low and deep. He couldn’t explain why, but it stirred something.
“You keep doing that,” he said, a little bolder than he intended.
“Doing what?” she asked with raised brows.
“Touching your hair like that.”
Her lips curled. “Ah. That.” She leaned in just slightly. “Old habits die hard.”
“It’s not a bad habit,” he said, eyes on her.
She looked at him longer than necessary. “Well, Jason… when a woman my age runs her fingers through her hair that slowly, it usually means she’s thinking about something… delicate. Something she hasn’t felt in a long time.”
He felt the temperature in the room rise, even though the window was cracked open.
Later, as the guests left and conversations faded, she lingered by the door. Jason was putting on his coat when she spoke again, softly.
“You could walk me to my car, if you’re not in a rush.”
He wasn’t.
As they stepped into the cool night air, she looked up at him, brushing her hair back again with that same slow touch.
“I never rush,” she whispered. “Especially when something feels this… promising.”