She stood across the room, speaking in a tone that was calm, unhurried. The soft knit of her shawl clung loosely around her shoulders. Then, without a word, it began to slide.
The fabric slipped in a slow, fluid motion, falling to her elbows before pooling in the crook of her arms. She didn’t reach to fix it. She didn’t glance down. Her eyes stayed locked on his, steady and knowing.
There was nothing dramatic in the gesture—just enough to reveal the line of her collarbone, the curve of her neck, the quiet confidence in her stance. The room carried on around them, but for him, the moment expanded, every detail sharp and deliberate.
When the shawl finally fell away entirely, she draped it casually over one arm, still speaking as though nothing had changed. But he knew it had. The shift wasn’t in the fabric—it was in the way she’d chosen to let it fall, in full view, without ever looking away from him.