The glass is just beyond her fingertips, but she takes her time reaching for it. He notices because she wants him to. Her body angles forward slowly, her back arching in a way that exaggerates the shape he’s already tried not to see. The room is quiet enough that the clink of glass against wood seems louder than it should, but his attention isn’t on the sound—it’s on the deliberate curve she’s revealing.
She could have leaned in from the side, quick and practical, but she doesn’t. Instead, she bends fully, her movements unhurried, her posture almost theatrical. His eyes betray him before his reason can catch up, tracing the outline she’s never truly hidden. And though he tells himself to look away, the stillness of the moment makes it feel as though she’s daring him not to.
When she straightens, she doesn’t act oblivious. She takes a slow sip, her gaze sliding toward him in the reflection of the glass. The corner of her lips curve—subtle, not quite a smile, not quite a confession. She doesn’t need to say anything. The message is already there, hidden in the way she reached, in the confidence of her body, in the silent permission that comes with not hiding what she knows he’s seen.