He wasn’t supposed to be watching. That was the danger, and she knew it. She shifted in her chair, not abruptly, not casually either, but with the kind of precision that made every detail feel rehearsed. The hem of her skirt rose an inch, then another, her knees sliding one over the other in a slow, unbroken line. He caught the movement in his peripheral vision first, then found himself drawn to it, unable to look away. She didn’t look at him immediately; she let him watch, let the silence grow thick until he realized that this was no accident. When her eyes did finally meet his, there was no smile, no blush—just a quiet acknowledgment that she knew exactly what she was doing. His throat tightened, his hands restless on the table, and he wondered if anyone else had noticed. But the truth was, she hadn’t done it for anyone else. The deliberate rhythm of her legs, the way the fabric teased at the edge of revelation, it was meant only for him. And in that small, suspended moment, he realized she had given him an image he wouldn’t be able to erase, no matter how hard he tried.