He didn’t expect to be invited in. Not this late. Not after the wine and laughter had faded into a silence that wasn’t awkward, but thick.
She stood near the mirror, back to him, one hand holding the open line of her dress at the nape.
“Would you mind?” she asked, voice low but firm.
He crossed the room without a word.
The zipper was old—metal teeth, elegant but stubborn. It caught just below the middle of her back. He could feel her warmth beneath the fabric, could smell faint lavender and something more intimate.
He pulled the zipper gently, slowly, letting the motion linger longer than necessary. Her skin shivered under his fingertips. Then… she stopped him.
“Right there,” she said.
Half-zipped. Half-bared.
She didn’t move. Didn’t explain.
Just stood there, eyes meeting his through the mirror.
In that stillness, a current passed between them. Not loud. Not loud at all. But undeniably there.
He wasn’t touching her skin anymore. And yet, somehow, she felt even more exposed.
She didn’t smile. But her lips softened. And when he stepped back just slightly, she didn’t pull the zipper the rest of the way up.
Not yet.