Ethan wasn’t exactly sure what had drawn him to her in the first place.
Maybe it was the way she walked—slow but purposeful. Or maybe it was her voice, husky with time and rich with memory. But most likely, it was the way she bit her lower lip when she looked at him, like she was holding back more than words.
Her name was Vivian. Late sixties, twice divorced, and full of the kind of quiet mischief only a woman who had lived—and wanted more—could carry.
They met at a photography class at the local community center. He’d signed up out of boredom. She signed up, as she later admitted with a laugh, “to see how many young men still notice a pair of legs wrapped in black tights.”
He noticed. From the very first day.
Vivian didn’t flirt the way younger women did. She didn’t toss her hair or bat her eyelashes. No, she leaned in when she spoke, her perfume soft and nostalgic, and occasionally, when he said something that made her smile—she bit her lower lip.
And every time she did, it made his pulse stutter.
He told himself it meant nothing. Just a habit, maybe. But the fourth time she did it—when they were sitting close together, reviewing his camera settings—he couldn’t pretend anymore.
“Why do you do that?” he asked suddenly.
“Do what?” she tilted her head.
“Bite your lip like that.”
Vivian’s eyes glimmered with the faintest spark. “You noticed?”
He nodded, heart thumping in his chest.
She smiled, then looked away for a moment. “It means I’m thinking of something I probably shouldn’t say out loud.”
He swallowed. “You can say it.”
She met his gaze again, biting that lip once more—but slower this time. “Not here. Not yet.”
The tension between them grew after that. Every shared glance lingered. Every touch—accidental or not—carried meaning.
Eventually, after weeks of this delicious, maddening dance, they found themselves alone after class, lights dimmed, everyone else gone. Vivian sat on the edge of the table, ankles crossed, eyes steady.
“You know,” she said, “when a woman my age bites her lip, it’s not for show. It’s memory. Hunger. Restraint.”
“And when she stops biting it?” he asked, stepping closer.
“She stops pretending.”
She didn’t bite her lip that night. She didn’t need to.
And Ethan stopped wondering what she was thinking about—because now, he knew.