She had always been careful with her answers—slow to commit, deliberate with her yes. But from the first time he spoke to her, she felt her guard loosen. His suggestions were never forceful; they came wrapped in a kind of certainty that made refusal feel unnecessary. When he asked if she wanted to share a bottle of wine instead of ordering separate drinks, she said yes without thinking. When he mentioned a quiet corner of the restaurant where they could talk, her lips shaped the word “okay” before she realized she had agreed.
It wasn’t just his words—it was the way he delivered them. Married men, she thought, carried the kind of confidence that came from knowing they didn’t need to rush. He gave her space to change her mind but made her feel she never wanted to. Every pause in the conversation was comfortable, as though it was part of something already decided between them. When he leaned back in his chair and simply watched her speak, she felt as if her own thoughts were being drawn out for his private enjoyment.
By the time he suggested they take a walk outside, the air cool and heavy with the promise of rain, she was already on her feet. She knew she was agreeing too quickly, but she also knew she didn’t want to stop. Sometimes, she thought, “yes” wasn’t about the words themselves—it was about how a man could make them feel inevitable. And as they stepped into the quiet street, her hand brushed his, just for a moment, as if sealing a decision they’d both made long before either of them spoke it aloud.