She sat across from him at the bar, barely speaking, but saying everything with her body.
The music pulsed low in the background, but neither of them noticed. Her fingers danced along the rim of her glass—slow, lazy circles—as if tracing an idea she wasn’t ready to say aloud. Then came that moment. She looked at him—not directly, but just enough for her gaze to graze his—and bit her lower lip.
Not hard. Not fast. Just a gentle press between teeth. It wasn’t a slip of shyness. It wasn’t hesitation.
It was permission. It was punctuation.
He felt it like a tap on the chest, a silent dare. She knew what it did to him. And when his eyes dropped to the curve of her mouth, she didn’t look away. She held the gesture for a second too long… then let her lip slide free again—slow and wet.
A flicker of a smile. A barely-there glance downward. Her knee brushed against his leg, not by accident. She leaned in close, not to whisper, but to let her breath land near his ear.
Her voice was steady. “You look like you’re thinking too hard.”
And he was. Because that bite… that lip… had rewired the direction of his thoughts entirely.