His thumb found the button of her trousers. Metal disc against his skin—cool, smooth, waiting. He felt her whole body lock, every muscle going still beneath his palm.
She could have stopped him. Could have said his name again, that soft version, could have pulled his hand away. Instead she pressed into him. Just a fraction. Her hips shifting forward, the smallest invitation, and he understood: this wasn't his to take. It was hers to give.
He held the button between thumb and forefinger, not moving, feeling the weight of her permission settle between them. Her breath came shallow against his collarbone, her fingers still curled into his shirt at the small of his back. The recording light blinked red above them, counting time in silence.
"You're not—" Her voice cracked. She stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "You're waiting."
He didn't answer. His thumb traced the edge of the button, a slow arc, feeling the fabric strain beneath it. Her exhale shuddered against his throat.
"Yes."
The word hung between them. He watched her throat move as she swallowed again, felt the tension in her hips as she held herself still, waiting for him to move. He didn't. He let her feel the pause, let her know he could feel the heat of her through the fabric, that he could feel her wanting him to move, and still he waited.
Her hand slid from his back to his wrist. She didn't pull. She pressed his thumb harder against the button, then let her fingers fall away, leaving him with the choice.
He didn't undo it. He traced the seam of her trousers instead, a slow line along the curve of her hip, then back to the button. Still closed. Still waiting. Her hips pressed into his palm again, and this time she made a sound—low, broken, not a word.
He held the position. Palm flat against the heat of her, thumb resting on the button, fingers spread across her hip. Her breath came in short pulls now, her forehead pressed hard against his shoulder, her body trembling in the space between what she wanted and what she was willing to ask for.
The recording light blinked. Red. Red. Red. Counting the seconds they were suspended in, neither of them moving, both of them holding the question that hung between them like a note waiting to resolve.
Her hand found his again. She pressed it flat against her, holding him there, her fingers lacing through his. A command given without words, a trust placed in his hands. And he held it, feeling the weight of it, knowing this was the moment that mattered more than any other he had earned in this room.