Just reaching for her purse in the bar

You catch a flash of cleavage as the figure leans across the bar, fingers stretching toward a small clutch just out of reach.

You feel the pull of it immediately — the way the neckline falls open, the warm curve of skin catching the low amber light above the counter.

You hold your drink a little tighter, unable to look away, aware of every inch of exposed skin, the casual obliviousness of the moment making it somehow more charged than anything deliberate could ever be.