She bent to tie her shoe—but what she revealed wasn’t clumsy. The sidewalk was uneven, and she’d stumbled slightly, a small oops that made him reach for her arm. “I’ve got it,” she said, brushing him off, and sank to one knee. Her skirt rode up as she leaned forward, just enough to show the backs of her thighs, the faint scar from a childhood fall he’d forgotten about.
Not an accident. He saw the way her fingers paused on the laces, how she glanced up through her lashes, how her shoulder dipped in a movement that could only be described as deliberate. Clumsiness was just the excuse— a reason to lower herself, to put him in the position of watching, waiting, remembering.
She’d always been like this, turning the mundane into something charged. A dropped dish that required bending over to retrieve, a loose button that needed sewing while he sat nearby, a shoe that just happened to come untied at the most opportune moment. It was never about showing off. It was about connection—reminding him that even after all these years, her body still held stories, still had the power to make him catch his breath.
When she stood, her shoe securely tied, she brushed off her skirt with a smile. “Better,” she said, and linked her arm through his. He didn’t mention the way his heart was racing. Some things are better left unsaid.