She was older. That much was obvious.
But she wore her age like silk—soft, flowing, with a confidence that no longer needed permission.
When she leaned forward across the table, asking him something about the book he’d mentioned, he almost missed her words. Because what caught his eye wasn’t the sentence—it was the shift.
The shift in her neckline.
It was subtle—barely noticeable. Just the soft curve of skin at the edge of the fabric, a line where shadow met suggestion. Her blouse didn’t fall open. Her bra didn’t peek. It wasn’t that kind of moment.
It was better than that.
She moved like someone who had long since stopped pretending. There was no fidgeting, no adjusting, no glance down to see what had slipped. She knew. Of course she knew. It was her pause in the middle of the question, her breath caught right before the next word. He felt it like heat under his collar.
It made him wonder what else she did deliberately.
How many inches she knew how to show.
And how many she chose not to.
She leaned back again, slowly, letting gravity pull the neckline back into place—closing the door she had opened for just a second. And when she smiled?
She didn’t smile at him.
She smiled because of him.