The evening had grown warm, and the low hum of conversation filled the space around them. He tried to keep his attention fixed on the others at the table, but it was impossible. Her skirt had shifted when she crossed her legs, riding a fraction higher than it should have. A detail so small, so seemingly insignificant, and yet it captured him entirely.
Most women would have smoothed the fabric back into place without a thought, tugged the hem downward with a quick, unconscious motion. But she didn’t. She left it as it was, the fabric still gathered slightly, revealing more than was proper, more than polite. And that stillness—that choice not to correct what had slipped—was the very thing that unsettled him.
His gaze flicked away quickly, not wanting to be caught, but the image imprinted itself. The bare length of her thigh, the soft glow of her skin against the dim light, the unmistakable awareness that she must know exactly how she appeared. She wasn’t clumsy; she was intentional.
Every now and then, she shifted just enough to draw his attention back. A slight uncrossing of her legs, a new angle that made the hem climb another inch. Still she didn’t adjust. Instead, she tilted her head toward someone else’s story, smiling, laughing, her entire demeanor the picture of composure. But beneath the table, the silence of her choice spoke louder than any words.
He felt his pulse quicken. Did she want him to notice? Was this her way of inviting him into the secret of her body without ever saying it aloud? He stole another glance, and this time her eyes caught his—not long, just a flicker. But in that instant he knew she was aware. The faint curve of her lips confirmed it.
Her skirt remained where it was, a deliberate defiance of modesty. And though no one else seemed to notice, for him it was impossible to ignore. The conversation continued, glasses clinked, laughter swelled, yet his entire focus narrowed to the tension beneath the table—the unspoken dare she had left hanging in the air.
By the time the evening ended, he couldn’t shake the thought: it wasn’t just that her skirt had ridden up. It was that she hadn’t pulled it down. And that single, deliberate omission would stay with him long after the night was over.