She bent over just far enough to reach the bottle—and just far enough to make sure he remembered it later. The cooler’s metal edge dug gently into her palm as she stretched, her spine curving in a line that stopped just short of indecent. The lemonade bottle was within easy grasp, but she let her fingers brush the ice cubes first, letting the cold sting a moment before closing around the glass.
He’d been standing by the grill, tongs in hand, when she’d said she needed a drink. Now the charcoal hissed unnoticed, his gaze fixed on the way her sundress fell forward, the fabric pooling softly at her lower back. She didn’t glance up, but she felt the shift in his breathing, the way the air around them seemed to thicken. This was familiar territory—after 20 years of marriage, she knew exactly how to carve a moment into his memory.
Her hair slipped from its clip, a strand brushing her cheek as she straightened. She turned, the bottle dangling from her fingers, and found him already looking away, pretending to adjust the burger patties. But his ears were pink, and when she passed him the lemonade, his knuckles grazed hers a beat too long.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice lower than usual.
She smiled, popping the cap off her own bottle. “Anytime,” she said, taking a slow sip. The ice clinked, loud in the silence between them.
Later, when the guests had gone and they were cleaning up, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. “You know I saw that,” he said, his breath warm against her neck.
She leaned back into him, grinning. “Good,” she said. “That’s why I did it.”
It wasn’t about provocation—it was about preservation. In the chaos of kids and careers and the slow fade of routine, those small, deliberate moments became the glue. A bend over a cooler, a lingering touch, a look that said remember this—they were the proof that even after all these years, the spark hadn’t dimmed. It just needed a little tending, now and then.