The conversation had been ordinary. Weather, errands, the kind of filler people use to avoid silence. But then she appeared in the doorway, and every syllable in his throat dissolved before it reached his lips. She didn’t step into the room. She just leaned against the frame, her body angled in a way that looked casual but felt calculated.
The tilt of her head made her hair fall over one shoulder, catching the light. Her arm rested above her, hand loosely hooked on the frame, which pulled her blouse just enough to hint at the shape beneath. She wasn’t doing anything overt, but that was the point. She didn’t need to. The doorway became a stage, and she filled it effortlessly.
He tried to remember what he’d been saying, but the rhythm was gone. She tilted her head slightly, as though waiting for him to finish, though she had to know he couldn’t. Her gaze wasn’t challenging—it was patient, which somehow made it worse.
The moment stretched until it became something else entirely. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, and yet she’d shifted the entire gravity of the room. It was then he realized she didn’t need to step forward to close the distance. She already had.