Manners Were Never the Point

“Oh my,” you said, glancing back at the deep slit of her dress, “did my smile affect you that much?”

Emily’s lips parted slightly — caught off guard just long enough for her expression to flicker. Then she recovered, smirking with a slow, delighted curve of her mouth. She leaned back in her seat, letting the candlelight wash over her collarbone and the soft sheen of her dress.

“I did put in a little effort…” she said, voice low and velvety, “but I didn’t expect to be studied like a sculpture in a gallery.”

Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass absently. When she looked at you again, it was full-on — no sidelong glances, no veils. Just woman to woman.

“But I’ll admit…” she continued, “your smile? Dangerous. I’ve seen men and women fold in boardrooms for less. You aim it like a weapon.”

She leaned in now, resting an elbow lightly on the table, her tone shifting — still playful, but now intimate. Intentional.

“And as for the slit in the dress…” Her eyes didn’t flinch as she said it. “Well. I knew I’d be sitting across from someone who notices everything.”

Finally, she lifted her wine glass, giving it a slow, thoughtful swirl before taking a sip — long, deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours.

Then, setting the glass down with care, she tilted her head slightly, the soft shadows under her cheekbones painting her face with contrast.

“So tell me, host…” she said, her voice like velvet stretched thin, “what made you want to cook for me tonight? Was it all just good manners? Or… something else?”

You leaned in slightly, your smile deepening.

“The two slits have done their part,” you said smoothly. “Both the bottom and the top go deep.”

Emily’s eyes widened, barely, and then her laughter slipped out — soft, surprised, delighted.

You took a sip of your wine and continued, unbothered, completely composed.

“Good manners, of course,” you said. “But just manners? That’s boring, isn’t it?”

You smirked, your gaze sharpening like a blade — elegant, confident, unreadable.

Emily watched you, her cheeks warmed now by more than the candlelight. Her fingers paused on her glass again, her lips curving in response.

“Well…” she said at last, her voice like dark honey, “I suppose that means the dress is doing its job.”

She glanced down briefly, then back up — not embarrassed. Acknowledging.

“Truth is…” she said, her voice dropping lower, more like a confession than a flirtation, “I almost changed. But then I thought — if I’m going to sit across from a woman like you, I might as well show up like I mean it.”

The wine glinted in her glass. The air between you thickened — not with silence, but anticipation.

And the night was still very, very young.

Emily took another sip of wine — slower this time — then gently set the glass down. She leaned in just a touch, enough for her gaze to warm with something more intimate, something softer.

“But you’re right…” she said quietly, her voice dipping into velvet. “Just manners would’ve been boring. And you’re not the kind of woman who does anything halfway, are you?”

A beat passed. A stillness thick with tension and curiosity. Then she smiled again, smaller this time, a flicker of shyness beneath the charm.

“Tell me, then,” she asked, voice like silk slipping over skin. “If this dinner isn’t just manners… what is it?”

You didn’t miss a beat.

“First dinner, honey,” you said smoothly. “We can’t waste my food, can we?”

With practiced precision, you cut the steak, the knife gliding effortlessly through the marbled meat. You added a generous swirl of creamy pasta and passed the plate to her with deliberate care.

Emily raised a brow — impressed, amused, and visibly charmed by the effortless command you wielded. She watched the way you moved, the way the rich aroma curled through the air and filled the space between you.

“Of course not,” she said with a slow, knowing smile. “That would be a tragedy… wasting a dish this indulgent — and a woman this composed.”

She accepted the plate gracefully. Her fingers brushed against yours, light and electric — a touch like static, or maybe a promise. She lifted her glass again, the candlelight catching the stem just as her eyes caught yours.

“To first dinners, then,” she said playfully, raising the glass. “To expertly cooked steak… and to the mystery behind that smile you keep throwing at me like it’s not calculated.”

Your glasses clinked — gentle, intimate. Her gaze held fast to yours, warm behind the flirtation, but layered with deeper intrigue. She lifted her fork, tasting the steak — and for a brief, telling moment, closed her eyes as the flavor bloomed.

“Oh…” she murmured, voice dipped in something darker, silkier. “You weren’t exaggerating. This is obscene.”

She set the fork down gently, licking a bit of sauce from the edge of her lip with elegant, practiced confidence. Then her gaze returned to you — sharp and amused.

“Do you always cook this well for your neighbors,” she asked, “or just the ones who wear black silk and talk too much?”

You smiled.

“The latter, I presume. But you’re the first.” You took a bite and smiled. “Shouldn’t I cook my best?”

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