The old woman let her fingers toy with her belt—just enough for him to … see more

She didn’t rush. That was the first thing he noticed. Every motion she made carried the kind of patience only someone utterly confident could have. Her fingers found the edge of the fabric at her hip, smoothing it down, pressing out invisible creases that didn’t need fixing. The material whispered against itself, a faint sound that somehow filled the quiet between them.

He told himself he wasn’t staring, but his eyes betrayed him. They followed the movement without his permission, tracing the curve of her hand as it moved lower, the slide of fabric over the shape beneath. It was mundane on the surface—a simple adjustment, the kind anyone might make—but her gaze told him it wasn’t an accident.

She looked directly at him while she did it, not hurried, not shy. The sort of look that didn’t ask for permission but measured his reaction. Her thumb pressed into the seam for a moment, the way one might check the fit of a garment, and then she tugged—just enough to realign it.

He shifted his weight, unsure whether to glance away or hold her eyes. The tension sat between them like a drawn string, humming without a sound. She let the moment breathe, then moved her other hand to her waist, fingers brushing along the waistband of the dress as if reacquainting herself with it. The gesture drew the fabric tighter across her, accentuating what was already visible.

“You always watch so carefully,” she said at last, her tone light but carrying the faintest thread of amusement. “Like you’re afraid you’ll miss something.”

He swallowed. She wasn’t wrong. There was a precision to the way she moved, an unspoken rhythm that invited his attention and then dared him to admit he’d given it. Her fingers slid to her side again, adjusting a fold that didn’t need adjusting. It was the kind of repetition that was less about the result and more about the effect.

She stepped slightly closer—not enough to close the distance entirely, but enough that the scent of her drifted between them. Something soft, almost sweet, layered over the faint warmth of skin and time. His breath caught without him meaning it to.

“Better?” she asked, glancing down at her own work as if inspecting it. But her eyes lifted again almost instantly, holding his in a way that made it clear she wasn’t really asking about the dress.

He didn’t answer. His silence seemed to please her. She smoothed the fabric one final time, then let her hand fall to her side, a small, almost satisfied smile curving her lips. Whatever she’d meant to adjust, it had never been the garment.