He’s mid-sentence when he notices it. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, holding it as though she’s suppressing more than just a smile. It should be an idle gesture, the kind people make when listening carefully, but with her, it carries weight. A kind of charged stillness that makes him stumble on his words. She doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t hide it, and he’s left wondering if she’s even hearing what he says—or if she’s silently testing him with that small, suggestive bite.
The longer he speaks, the deeper the tension coils. Her lip shifts slightly, released for a moment only to be caught again, her mouth softening around the gesture. Every pause in his story seems to sync with the way she presses her teeth down, almost like she’s measuring her patience, holding back something unsaid. He’s torn between finishing his point and abandoning it entirely, because it’s no longer the topic they’re talking about that matters—it’s the unspoken language her mouth is weaving with every subtle movement.
By the time he realizes he’s lost track of his own words, she’s leaning closer, chin tilted, lip still caught between her teeth. There’s a gleam in her eyes that tells him the story has become irrelevant. She isn’t listening to his words at all—she’s watching his reaction, savoring the way he falters under the weight of her silence. That single, small bite has become a question hanging in the air, one that makes his pulse quicken: How much longer can you pretend you don’t notice?