A woman her age doesn’t bite her lip by accident. The edge of her teeth caught the plump flesh, a slow press that reddened the skin, as she watched him shuffle the cards. He’d known her sixty years, long enough to recognize every habit, every tic—and this wasn’t one of them.
Her hands were steady, her gaze focused on the game, but that lip stayed trapped, released only when he dealt her a hand. “Lucky,” she murmured, and her voice was thicker than usual, the word sticking to the roof of her mouth. He’d thought time might blunt this— the way a small gesture from her could still make his pulse race—but here it was, sharper than ever.
This wasn’t nervousness. Women her age don’t fidget out of shyness. It was a signal, one he’d learned to read decades ago: Pay attention. This matters. Whether it was the way she’d bit her lip before their first kiss, or when she’d told him she was pregnant, or after the funeral when he’d thought he couldn’t go on— that gesture always meant something was shifting.
He dealt his own hand, his fingers lingering on the cards. She bit her lip again, softer this time, and winked. Some things don’t fade with age. They just get clearer.