The zipper sits just below her neck.
A single line between elegance and exposure.
Most men yank it down like a countdown to something they feel entitled to unwrap.
But he didn’t.
He found it.
Held it.
Paused.
His fingers hovered over the metal tab, feeling the heat of her spine beneath the fabric. She said nothing—but her breath hitched.
He didn’t pull.
He listened.
To the tension in her body, the way she leaned back—offering her nape, arching just slightly. Not a request.
A permission.
He let the zipper slide slowly, inch by inch—each movement timed with the rise and fall of her breath.
When he reached halfway, she placed her hand over his.
Not to stop him.
To feel it with him.
Because to her, that moment—between clothed and bare—is sacred.
It’s not about what’s underneath.
It’s about who dares to linger at the threshold.
And understand:
Unzipping a dress isn’t an act of haste.
It’s a ritual.
And she only lets the patient ones complete it.