The silk slid from her shoulders without fanfare, a slow, inevitable descent, as if the fabric itself had grown tired of clinging. It pooled at her ankles, a ghostly trail, but she didn’t glance down, didn’t pause to adjust or retrieve it. Her bare skin caught the lamplight, soft but unflinching, as she kept walking, her steps steady, her gaze locked on his.
This wasn’t a striptease. It was a shedding—of pretense, of hesitation, of the layers that kept them apart. The robe slipping felt like forgetting: the kind of memory that fades not because it’s lost, but because it’s no longer needed. She was baring herself, not as a spectacle, but as a fact—this is me, unfiltered, unguarded, moving toward you.
He stood frozen, his breath caught, as she closed the distance, her bare toes finally brushing his shoes. “You act like you’ve never seen me before,” she said, her voice low, and he realized: he hadn’t. Not like this—unburdened, unrushed, walking toward him like he was the only thing that mattered. The robe was gone, but what remained was more vivid than any memory.