At first, it seems like nothing. A gentle shift of fabric, a subtle looseness as her dress slides down just enough to reveal more than propriety allows. He notices immediately—of course he does—but she doesn’t. Or rather, she pretends not to. Instead, she goes on speaking as though nothing has happened, her posture relaxed, her shoulder bare to the air. The moment stretches, delicate and deliberate, and he’s trapped in the question of whether to look away or let his eyes linger.
Then, she moves just enough to test him further. Tilting slightly, leaning into the light so the line of skin is unmistakable. The dress still hasn’t been adjusted, though one simple tug could set it back in place. Instead, she holds herself in a stillness that feels anything but careless. Every second she waits seems designed to weigh on him, to make him confront the rawness of his attention. Her silence becomes its own kind of provocation, daring him to betray his interest with even the smallest glance.
Only after his restraint falters—after he’s certain she’s caught the flicker of his gaze—does she finally lift her hand, slowly, to pull the fabric back into place. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t act embarrassed. If anything, she moves with a calm composure that suggests she was always in control. And when the dress settles neatly back on her shoulder, she doesn’t comment. She only smiles faintly, the kind of smile that tells him she saw everything he tried not to reveal, and that maybe, just maybe, she let it slip on purpose.