
The room was quiet, save for the hum of the ceiling fan, when she reached for the top button of her blouse. Just one—slow, deliberate, her finger and thumb working the small plastic disc until it popped free, revealing a sliver of skin, pale and soft, above the neckline. She didn’t go further. Didn’t even look at him, just let her hand fall to her lap, her gaze fixed on the window where the moon hung low.
But that was enough. His mind raced, filling in the blanks: the next button, and the one after that, the fabric falling open to reveal the curve of her collarbone, the faint scar on her shoulder from a childhood fall he’d heard her mention once. He’d seen her undressed before, but this—this slow, partial reveal—hit harder. It was the suggestion of more, not the reality, that coiled in his gut, hot and tight.
She glanced at him, a small smile playing at her lips, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Cold,” she said, pulling the fabric closed slightly, but not enough to cover the gap. The move was innocent, almost, but it stoked the fire—reminding him that she held the power, that she could undo another button or none at all, and he’d still be right here, hanging on her next move.
His imagination didn’t need much. One button was a key, unlocking a door to all the things he remembered and all the things he wanted to rediscover. She didn’t have to bare everything. Sometimes, a sliver was enough to make the mind run wild—and she knew it.