It was late, the light was low, and they were alone long enough for the air to feel different. She reached up, pretending to adjust her hair, her arm lifting in a casual arc. That’s when the thin strap at her shoulder slid, slow and inevitable, down the slope of her skin. She didn’t catch it right away—didn’t rush to fix it. The fabric clung for a moment, then gave way, settling at her upper arm. It was the kind of thing that could have been an accident—but wasn’t. Not with the way her gaze stayed locked on him, the corner of her mouth tilted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. He could see the soft line of her collarbone, the bare curve that the strap had abandoned, and the quiet control in her stillness. She could have fixed it instantly, but she didn’t. She let it stay there, the loose ribbon of fabric telling him more than words ever could. The silence between them grew taut, every second making it harder to look away. And when she finally did lift the strap back into place, it was with the kind of unhurried grace that told him she could let it fall again—any time she wanted.