It happens without warning, the fabric sliding down her skin in a way that feels almost careless. He notices before she does—or maybe she notices first but pretends not to. The bare line of her shoulder glows against the light, distracting him more than it should.
She glances at him once, catching his eyes exactly where they shouldn’t be, but she doesn’t adjust her dress. Instead, she keeps talking as if nothing has changed, letting him wrestle with the sight. The curve of her collarbone becomes a quiet invitation, made sharper by her deliberate indifference.
Every second she leaves it untouched, the silence between them thickens. He knows he shouldn’t stare, but when she shifts in her seat and the fabric slides a little lower, it feels intentional—like she’s daring him to imagine the rest. And though she never lifts the strap back, her smile tells him she knows exactly what it’s doing to him.