Evan wasn’t supposed to notice her like that.
Not Claire — his best friend’s ex-wife, the woman he’d known since his twenties. Back then, she was sweet, shy, the type who laughed too softly and wore oversized sweaters that hid everything. But time had changed her…
Now she was forty-eight, divorced, and comfortable in her own skin — maybe too comfortable.
It started the night of the reunion dinner.
The wine flowed, the music was low, and laughter filled the kitchen. Evan leaned against the counter, nursing his drink, when Claire walked in wearing a black silk blouse tucked into dark jeans that hugged her hips like sin itself.
She wasn’t trying too hard. That was the dangerous part.
Her blouse dipped just enough to reveal the faint curve of her collarbone, and when she laughed, the silk shifted ever so slightly — teasing without meaning to.
Or maybe she meant to.
Later, when the party thinned out, they found themselves outside on the balcony, the city lights throwing soft shadows across her face.
“You’ve changed,” he said quietly, sipping his beer.
Claire tilted her head, her earring catching the light. “Changed?”
“You used to hide,” he said. “Oversized sweatshirts. Baggy jeans. Always trying to disappear.”
Her lips curved slowly, almost like she was testing him. “Maybe I got tired of hiding.”
Slow motion.
She leaned against the railing, elbows propped, her blouse shifting just enough to reveal the faint outline beneath. Evan’s eyes darted away instantly — but not fast enough. She noticed.
Her smile deepened, soft but knowing.
“You’re staring,” she whispered, her voice low and playful.
“Am not,” he lied.
“Evan.” Her tone dropped half an octave, warm and deliberate. “Yes, you are.”
The silence stretched, thick with heat neither of them addressed. Then Claire reached for his glass, brushing his fingers intentionally as she took it. Her touch was featherlight but deliberate — an invitation disguised as an accident.
Every nerve in his hand woke up.
“Divorce does that to you,” she said softly, swirling his drink lazily. “You stop apologizing for wanting things.”
He swallowed hard, watching the way her thumb traced the rim of his glass. “Things like what?”
She glanced up then, holding his gaze. “Things I used to think were off-limits.”
Her words landed heavy between them, layered with meanings neither dared to say out loud.
Evan tried to change the subject, but Claire didn’t let him.
She stepped closer — slow, measured, unhurried — until the faint floral scent of her perfume hit him. Her shoulder brushed his lightly, and he swore his entire body went tight.
She wasn’t doing anything inappropriate. Not really. But every movement was loaded:
- the way her nails grazed the edge of the railing
- the soft sway of her blouse as she leaned in
- the slight parting of her lips when she laughed quietly
She wasn’t bold in words. She was bold in body language.
“You know what’s funny?” she whispered suddenly, looking straight ahead at the skyline. “Every year… I feel braver. Like… the older I get, the less I care about rules.”
Evan didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Because in that moment, her hand rested on the railing — inches from his. Close enough that his fingertips tingled with awareness.
He knew he shouldn’t, but his hand shifted slightly, brushing against hers.
She didn’t pull away.
Slow motion.
He looked at her, expecting hesitation, maybe a smirk, maybe a polite retreat. But Claire didn’t move. Her breathing slowed, lips parting just slightly, as though she’d been waiting for him to cross that line.
She turned her head then, finally meeting his gaze.
“Evan,” she murmured, her voice low, smoky. “You’re trembling.”
He swallowed hard, forcing a laugh. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
And then she reached up, fingers grazing the back of his neck — so softly he almost thought he imagined it.
That single touch undid him.
They didn’t kiss. Not yet. That would’ve been too easy.
Instead, Claire leaned in, her lips grazing just beneath his ear as she whispered, “Every year, I learn something new about what I want… and what I’m willing to take.”
Then she pulled back, eyes locking on his.
And smiled.
That night, Evan went home restless, haunted by every brush of her hand, every stolen glance, every unspoken thing lingering between them.
He lay awake, hearing her words on repeat:
“Every year, I feel braver.”
And he knew — deep down — this wasn’t over.