The first button popped free with a soft click, and her gaze stayed locked on his, steady as a heartbeat. The second, third, fourth—each one a slow, deliberate punctuation mark, the fabric parting incrementally to reveal a sliver of collarbone, a hint of lace, a patch of skin that glowed in the lamplight. He couldn’t look away, even if he’d wanted to.
This wasn’t about undressing. It was about seeing—her, unflinching, as she bared herself piece by piece, and him, laid bare by the intensity of her stare. Her fingers paused at the last button, the blouse hanging open like a question, and she tilted her head, as if daring him to look away. He didn’t.
When she finally pulled the blouse off, letting it fall to the floor, her chest rising and falling with a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, he still hadn’t broken eye contact. This was the point, he realized—not the nudity, but the connection, the raw, unfiltered exchange of I see you and I’m letting you. Buttons were just props. The real act was in the looking.