The simple ritual of pouring tea should have been nothing more than that—a quiet, ordinary act. Yet when she leaned forward, the moment unfolded differently. Her dress shifted, the neckline dipping ever so slightly, revealing more than either of them pretended to notice.
He saw it first in the periphery, the pale curve exposed against the dim light of the room. He tried not to look, tried to fix his attention on the teapot, on the steam rising in thin curls. But temptation has a way of capturing the edges of the eye, drawing it in before the mind can resist. And she seemed to know it.
Her movements were unhurried, almost languid, as though she poured the tea not just for his cup but for his attention. The way her sleeve brushed the table, the way her hair slipped forward and framed her face—all of it conspired to hold him captive. He shifted in his seat, uneasy with how natural it felt to let his gaze drift lower, even as guilt prickled at the edges of his thoughts.
When she finally placed the teapot down, she did not immediately straighten. Instead, she lingered, her hands steady on the porcelain, her posture still tilted forward. It was as if she was giving him time—time to look, time to betray himself, time to drown in the quiet danger she offered.
Then she lifted her eyes. Not quickly, not with surprise, but slowly, knowingly, as though she had timed the angle perfectly. Their gazes met, and in her eyes there was no shame, no fluster—only a calm certainty, the kind that comes from experience. The kind of look that told him she understood the power of being seen, and she didn’t mind holding him there.
When she finally leaned back, the room felt altered. The tea was poured, the act complete, yet neither of them reached for their cups. The steam curled upward, filling the silence that pressed around them. His throat felt dry, though the drink sat waiting before him.
And she only smiled, faintly, as though nothing had happened. As though the entire exchange had been ordinary. Yet the memory of the neckline, the curve, the unspoken invitation in her composure—it stayed with him, humming like an undercurrent neither of them could ignore.