He kept his voice steady, his laughter measured, even as his fingers tightened around his glass. Politeness was a armor: the “please” and “thank you,” the careful distance between his chair and hers, the way he averted his gaze when she crossed her legs. He’d mastered the act—until she stood, her chair scraping back, and walked over, her bare feet silent on the floor.
He started to stand, to offer her a seat, to say something charming, but she pressed a hand to his chest, pushing him back down. Then she lifted her skirt slightly, settled onto his lap, and wrapped her arms around his neck, her face inches from his. The armor cracked.
“Now listen,” she said, her voice low, not harsh, but sharp—like a knife cutting through pretense. “All that polite nonsense? It’s boring.” He opened his mouth to apologize, to explain, but she shook her head, her thumb brushing his lower lip. “Listen with this,” she said, pressing his palm to her chest, over her heart.
He stopped trying to be polite. Stopped caring about the rules. Just listened—to the thud of her heartbeat, to the catch in her breath, to the way she said his name like it was a secret. Politeness had kept him safe. This? This was alive.