The zipper’s metal teeth catch for a second, then slide up with a low, deliberate hum, the sound loud in the quiet room. She’s facing away, but you can see her reflection in the mirror—shoulders relaxed, no hurry in the set of her spine—as the fabric of her dress closes over the skin you’d traced with your fingers minutes before.
At first, you think she’s leaving. Your chest tightens, a flash of panic—did I do something wrong?—but then she pauses, the zipper halfway up, and turns her head, her gaze meeting yours in the mirror. No anger, no impatience. Just a slow, steady look that says pay attention.
She resumes zipping, slower now, each click of the teeth a punctuation mark. This isn’t about ending the night. It’s about who ends it. You’d lost yourself in the rhythm earlier, thought the pace was yours to set, but this—this slow, unrushed closing of her dress—is a reminder. She holds the curtain, and she decides when to drop it.
When the zipper reaches the top, she smooths the fabric with one hand and turns, a faint smile on her lips. “Not yet,” she says, and it’s not a promise to stay. It’s a declaration: the night ends when she says it does. You lean back, letting the lesson settle in. Control isn’t about speed. It’s about knowing when to pause—and who gets to decide.