She had been eyeing his suit since 59th Street. When the train emptied at 14th she took the sudden exodus as an excuse to sit next to him.
“I’ve never seen working sleeve buttons up close. It’s such a beautiful detail,” she said, her fingers hovering over his light gray glen plaid.
The button holes on his sleeve were stitched in orange, a delicate but striking accent that implied bespoke.
“May I?” she requested, looking into his dark eyes.
He nodded, trying to suppress a grin.
She felt the fabric, examined it more closely. Her leg pressed against his as she leaned in.