Evelyn knew exactly what she was doing.
The evening air was warm, heavy with the smell of cut grass and old roses. Jack had stopped by after fixing the porch light, sweat still clinging to his neck, shirt sticking slightly to his chest. He’d said he’d stay for just one drink. That was twenty minutes ago.
Now he was on her couch, and she was sitting across from him, one leg crossed over the other, glass of wine balanced delicately in her hand.
She leaned forward to set the glass on the coffee table.
Just enough to make the silk of her blouse shift.
The neckline slipped lower than gravity should allow, and Jack caught himself staring before he could stop. She noticed. Of course she did.
Her lips curved, barely there, the kind of smile that said nothing and everything at once.
“You fixed the light perfectly,” she said softly, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “Guess I owe you more than a thank you.”
Jack cleared his throat, forcing his gaze back up. “Just doing my neighborly duty,” he muttered, but his voice sounded rougher than he intended.
Silence stretched—thick, slow, almost deliberate.
Then she leaned back, letting the robe fall just enough off one shoulder this time. Her perfume drifted across the room, soft, sweet, maddening. Jack felt his pulse thud in his ears, but he didn’t move.
Not until her hand touched his knee.
It was casual. Too casual. Like she was steadying herself as she reached for her glass. But she left it there a second too long. Her thumb brushed the fabric, slow, absentminded.
Jack exhaled hard. “Evelyn…”
“Don’t,” she whispered, eyes holding his.
And suddenly the quiet living room felt louder than the outside world. He watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed. The way her chest rose and fell a little faster than before. The way she shifted on the couch, closer by inches, but enough to make him aware of every line of her body.
His hand found hers without thinking.
And she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she turned her palm, fingers sliding between his, grip tightening just slightly, grounding him, anchoring him in the tension neither of them had planned for.
“You should go,” she murmured.
But her legs didn’t move. Neither did his.
The edge of her blouse slipped a little more, exposing skin that caught the last of the fading light. And when she finally looked up at him again, her voice was steadier than his heartbeat.
“Or… you could stay for one more glass.”
That was how it started.
Not with a kiss. Not with a promise.
Just a slow lean forward, a silk blouse, and silence that said more than words ever could.
