They had been teasing each other all evening, but it was never overt. Just a shared glance across the table, the occasional touch that lingered too long, a tone in her voice that dipped just enough to suggest more. Nothing that anyone else would notice—but he noticed. He noticed everything about her.
Back in her apartment, the air changed. It was the way she kicked her shoes off by the door. The way she leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping wine like she had all the time in the world. The way she watched him without watching, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
And then, it happened.
She reached for something—he couldn’t even remember what—and her skirt shifted. Just slightly. But enough.
It slipped from her hip, not entirely, not dramatically—but just enough to reveal the edge of lace he wasn’t supposed to see. Not yet. Not without permission.
He froze.
She didn’t adjust it. She didn’t fix it. Her eyes met his, and she held the moment like it was glass—fragile, deliberate, sharp. He wasn’t sure if she meant to do it. But that ambiguity? That was the point.
She turned casually and walked toward the hallway, as if nothing had happened, but she walked slowly. Deliberately. Like she was still listening—for footsteps that might follow, or for the silence that meant he was too stunned to move.
He stayed exactly where he was, trying to decide if that glimpse was an invitation—or a warning.
Some women give you signs.
She gave you pauses.