Her teeth sank into her lower lip, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to redden the skin, as she watched him speak. He thought it was shyness at first—the way her gaze darted away, the flush high on her cheeks—but then he noticed the set of her jaw, the steady rhythm of her breathing. This wasn’t nervousness. This was control.
Biting her lip was a dam. It held back the words she wanted to say, the sighs she wanted to let fall, the urge to reach for him across the table. Nervousness is shaky, erratic. This was deliberate, almost meditative—her body’s way of counting to ten, of making sure she didn’t rush, didn’t reveal too much.
He stopped talking, and her lip slipped free, pink and slightly swollen. “Go on,” she said, but her voice was thick, like she’d swallowed the rest of the sentence. He knew then: that bite wasn’t fear. It was desire, tamped down and sweet, the kind that burns slow instead of flaring bright. Some restraint isn’t about holding back. It’s about making sure when you finally let go, it matters.