He didn’t answer.
Didn’t argue.
He just found the zipper at the small of my back and began to undo me like a secret.
Slowly.
So slowly.
Each inch unzipped felt like a countdown I hadn’t agreed to.
The fabric eased away from my skin as if it understood it didn’t belong to me anymore either.
Cool air kissed the newly exposed skin. My shoulder blades. The curve of my spine. My breath hitched.
I clenched my fists.
I should’ve moved.
Should’ve run.
Should’ve said stop again.
But instead…
I stood there.
Still.
Burning.
My pulse pounded in places I didn’t want to acknowledge, thudding traitorously under skin I wished I couldn’t feel.
“No,” I said again, barely more than a breath.
But it didn’t sound like a protest anymore.
It sounded like please don’t let me want this.
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t speak.
He just leaned in, and I felt the heat of him behind me, surrounding me like a storm waiting to break.
His fingers brushed my shoulders as the gown slipped the rest of the way down.
It pooled at my feet—silent, soft, defeated.
I stood there in nothing but my skin and the silence between us.
He hadn’t even really touched me.
Not yet.
I stood there, exposed.
Every thread that once protected me lay at my feet like shed skin.
