She didn’t sit back in the chair—she stayed on the edge, knees parted just enough to make him wonder if she meant it. The wooden seat creaked under her, a quiet protest at her refusal to settle, but she paid it no mind. Her hands rested lightly on her thighs, fingers splayed, as if she might stand at any moment. But she didn’t move, just let the silence stretch between them, thick with the question of intent.
He’d pulled out the chair for her, a reflex from years of polite habit, but she’d barely lowered herself into it. Most people would lean back, cross their legs, claim the space as their own. Not her. She sat forward, her posture a study in tension, as if the chair was a temporary perch rather than a place to rest. And those knees—wide enough to be casual, but not so wide as to be careless—kept drawing his gaze, making him second-guess every thought.
They were alone in his office, the blinds slanted to let in slats of afternoon light. He’d meant to discuss the project, spread the blueprints across the desk, but now the papers lay forgotten. Her presence was too immediate, too deliberate. He found himself leaning forward too, mirroring her posture, as if drawn by an invisible string.
“About the timeline—” he started, but his voice faltered when she shifted, her knee brushing his calf. It was a light touch, almost accidental, but her eyes didn’t leave his face. No flinch, no apology. Just that steady gaze, as if she was cataloging his reaction.
He cleared his throat, forcing his attention to the blueprints. “We need to adjust the—”
“Do we?” she said, and her voice was low, a little rough. She leaned in farther, her elbows now resting on her knees, and he caught the scent of her perfume, sharp and sweet. “Or are you just avoiding what’s really here?”
Her knees inched wider, a fraction of an inch, and this time there was no mistaking it. It wasn’t an invitation—it was a challenge. Are you going to keep pretending, or are you going to admit you see me?
He set down his pen, the metal clattering on the desk. “What do you want?” he asked, and his own voice surprised him—raw, honest, unguarded.
She smiled then, a slow curve of her lips, and finally, finally, she leaned back, just a little. Her knees stayed parted, but the tension in her shoulders eased. “That,” she said. “Just that. No more pretending.”
The chair stopped creaking. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped. He realized he’d been holding his breath, and let it out in a rush. She’d known exactly what she was doing—sitting on that edge, keeping him off balance, daring him to meet her where she was. And now that he had, the space between them felt different. Lighter.
She stood, smoothing her skirt with a flick of her hands, and he found himself standing too, as if pulled by that same string. “Tomorrow,” she said, pausing at the door. “We’ll talk about the timeline then.”
He nodded. But what he’d remember later, long after the blueprints were filed away, was the way she’d sat—on the edge, knees parted, unapologetic. A question and an answer, all at once.