A single button lay on the floor between them. Round, innocent, tragically overworked.
Henry stared at it.
Prudencia stared at him.
The air in the room had changed—like the moment before a thunderstorm, if thunder was made of thighs and longing.
Prudencia clutched her now-partially-unbuttoned blouse, breath shallow. Her collarbone—previously held hostage for thirty-five years—peeked out into the world like a shy debutante at her first scandal.
"I..." she whispered, eyes wide. "I haven't... lost a button since the Great Censorship of '04."
Henry stepped forward carefully, as if the floorboards might tattle.
"No one is here to judge," he said, voice low. "Only to bounce... and be bounced."
She swallowed.
"Your... your hips. They move like sin."
"They move like truth."
Another button popped.
Plink.
It hit the floor and rolled under a chair, whispering "freedom..." as it vanished into the shadows.
Prudencia gasped, stepping back. "Stop! I am a woman of discipline!"
