Ethan noticed it the first time they met.
Not her lips. Not her legs. Not even her laugh.
It was her shoulder.
The way Emma’s left shoulder tilted forward slightly when she leaned in, just enough to make the soft strap of her silk blouse slide an inch lower than it should. There was nothing intentional about it — or maybe that was the point. It was careless, natural, yet impossible not to watch.
Emma was thirty-five, a creative director at the agency where Ethan had just joined as a photographer. Divorced two years, she carried herself with an easy confidence — like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted but would never admit it first.
That Friday night, after the campaign meeting, she asked if he wanted to stay and “go over the mood board.”
The office was quiet, half-lit, city lights bleeding in through the tall windows. Emma perched on the edge of the conference table, barefoot now, heels kicked aside. A glass of red wine balanced loosely in her hand.
“You take pictures,” she said, swirling the wine lazily. “But do you ever notice what people don’t show?”
Ethan hesitated, camera strap still slung around his neck. “Sometimes. Depends on the person.”
Her lips curved. “And me?”
Slow motion.
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on her knee, letting the strap of her blouse slip lower again, exposing the smooth edge of her shoulder.
Ethan’s gaze caught there before he could stop himself.
“Exactly,” she murmured, sipping her wine. “You look. Everyone looks. But nobody asks.”
“Should I?” he asked, his voice lower now.
Emma didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she set the glass down, letting her fingertips linger at the rim. Then she tilted her head, studying him carefully.
“Take the camera,” she said softly. “Show me what you see.”
Ethan hesitated only a moment before lifting it. Through the viewfinder, everything slowed: the soft glow of city lights on her skin, the subtle curve where her collarbone met her shoulder, the lazy half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Closer,” she whispered.
He stepped forward, framing the shot tighter, his hand brushing hers as he adjusted the focus.
Emma didn’t move away.
The shutter clicked once. Twice. Then stopped.
“Problem?” she asked.
Ethan lowered the camera, pulse quickening. “You know what you’re doing.”
“Do I?” she countered, voice soft, teasing.
Her hand came up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The movement drew his attention back to the bare curve of her shoulder, still exposed, pale under the dim office light.
“Emma,” he started, breath unsteady, “this… we probably shouldn’t.”
“Probably,” she agreed, but didn’t cover herself.
Time slowed.
She leaned back slightly on the table, palms flat, arching just enough that the neckline of her blouse dipped further.
Ethan set the camera aside.
His fingers hovered inches from her skin, not touching yet — just close enough to feel the heat radiating off her shoulder. She watched him carefully, breath shallow, waiting.
“Say it,” she whispered finally.
“What?”
“That you want to.”
He didn’t answer with words.
Instead, his fingertips brushed the edge of her shoulder — barely, lightly, like testing how far gravity could be stretched before it broke.
Emma inhaled sharply, her lips parting, but her eyes stayed locked on his.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough.
“Good,” she whispered.
Everything blurred after that.
Ethan felt the edge of the table against his hip, the warmth of her skin under his hand, the slight tremor in her breathing as she tilted toward him. The strap of her blouse finally slipped completely, falling to her elbow.
Slow motion again.
Her shoulder burned under his touch — soft, warm, alive — like it had been waiting years for someone to notice it wasn’t just another part of her body.
Afterward, they sat by the window, city lights flickering below, the room silent except for their uneven breathing.
Emma traced the rim of her glass, her nails clicking softly against the crystal.
“Most men,” she said finally, almost to herself, “rush for the obvious.”
Ethan glanced over at her. “And you?”
Her smile was small, secretive. “I like slow burns.”