I pride myself on maintaining professionalism in the workplace. It's not just about how I carry myself, but how I dress—subtly choosing pieces that balance presence with restraint. Formal pants, a loose shirt, nothing too tight. Especially because… well, let’s just say I’ve learned to keep certain things discreet.

That morning, though, was different. I was working from home and needed only to pop into the office for a few minutes to collect some paperwork. No big meetings, no need for the full ensemble. So I threw on a clean, well-fitted pair of jeans—no underwear—and a crisp shirt with a jacket. Neat, presentable, but far more casual than usual.

By the time I arrived, it was nearly lunchtime. A couple of my colleagues were already in the break room, seated around a low table. I stood beside them, exchanging some light banter, their gaze naturally level with my waist. Nothing unusual.

Then "Jane" walked in.

Composed as ever, she moved with the kind of graceful professionalism that left no room for assumption. Her hair tied back, her blouse neatly tucked, her smile courteous but reserved. She greeted us warmly and joined the conversation with quiet confidence—the kind that doesn't need to speak loudly to be felt.

As I responded to something she asked, her eyes found mine. Clear, intelligent, engaged. But then—ever so slightly—they dipped. A quick flick downward. I told myself she was simply reflecting, absorbing the conversation.

But then it happened again. And again.

Each time, she met my eyes with calm composure, only to let them drift—just a little longer than before. They didn’t scan the room. They didn’t flick nervously. They settled, quietly, intentionally, on the exact outline I knew my jeans weren’t doing a great job of concealing.

I knew that gaze. I’d seen it in less buttoned-up places—nudist retreats, open-minded parties, settings where looking was as natural as breathing. But here, in the middle of a sterile office with fluorescent lights and the hum of a printer nearby… it was different.

What struck me wasn’t just where her eyes landed, but how composed she remained. No smirk. No embarrassment. Just careful stillness—as though if she kept her face calm enough, I wouldn’t notice.

And so I pretended not to.

Out of respect—for her professionalism, and perhaps for the moment itself—I gave her that grace. I continued speaking as though nothing had happened. I let her believe she was subtle enough. That she had gotten away with it.

But I noticed.

I noticed the long pauses between her glances, the slight dilation in her eyes, the way she avoided darting back up too quickly—as if afraid of giving herself away. I felt the weight of her gaze, the way it lingered on what was beneath denim, tracing the presence she hadn’t meant to find herself so focused on.

And I let her have it. The illusion of secrecy. The privacy of a gaze unacknowledged.

There was something strangely intimate about it. Not overt. Not crossing a line. Just… a quiet indulgence she thought was hers alone. And perhaps the most seductive part of it all was that she had no idea I’d seen her see me.

Or maybe she did.