Her sweater was old, the kind of cashmere that had softened over years of wear, thinning at the elbows and neckline until it draped like a suggestion rather than clothing. We were in her loft—exposed brick, high ceilings, books stacked haphazardly on every surface—and she’d thrown it on over a camisole after the power flickered during the storm.The outage plunged us into intimacy: candles on the coffee table casting wavering shadows, the patter of rain on skylights our only accompaniment. We sat cross-legged on the rug, a bottle of bourbon between us, passing it back and forth without glasses.She tugged at a loose thread near the cuff, watching it unravel inch by inch. “This thing’s falling apart,” she said.I watched her fingers instead—the way they worked the yarn free, deliberate and unhurried. “Looks better that way.”Her eyes met mine over the flame of a match she was lighting another candle with. The sweater slipped off one shoulder as she leaned forward, exposing the thin strap of her top and the curve of collarbone beneath. She didn’t fix it.The bourbon warmed us from inside out, loosening tongues and limbs. We talked about threads in general: the ones that bind, the ones that fray, the precise moment you decide to pull harder. Her knee rested against my thigh now, casual contact that had migrated from accidental to intentional sometime during the second pour.She handed me the bottle, her fingers lingering on mine. A loose thread from the sweater caught on my knuckle, tugging gently. Instead of pulling away, she let it happen—watched as the yarn gave way, lengthening the unraveling.”You’re destroying my favorite sweater,” she murmured, but her smile said otherwise.I set the bottle down. “You started it.”My hand followed the thread’s path, fingertips grazing her wrist, then forearm, tracing the path the yarn had taken. The skin beneath was warmer than the air, soft in a way cashmere could only approximate. She didn’t stop me. Her breath shallowed as my touch reached the elbow—thinnest part of the fabric, nearly transparent now.The sweater hung by threads on that side, one shoulder fully bare. I hooked a finger under the remaining yarn, not pulling, just holding tension. Her pulse fluttered visibly at her throat.”Careful,” she whispered. “It might all come undone.”I leaned in, close enough that my breath stirred the loose strands of her hair. “Would that be so bad?”Her answer was to shift forward, closing the distance until her bare shoulder brushed my chest. The contact was electric—cool skin against my shirt, the faint scratch of unraveling wool. My hand slid to her waist, bunching the sweater’s hem, feeling the heat of her through the camisole.We stayed balanced on that edge, bodies aligned but not pressing, hands exploring the frayed borders without crossing fully into the center. Rain intensified overhead, drowning out the world. Her fingers found the buttons of my shirt in turn—popping the top one open, then the next, mirroring the sweater’s destruction.By the time the power hummed back to life, her left sleeve was a dangling ruin, my collar gaping. Lights flickered on, revealing us: disheveled, flushed, still fully clothed but utterly exposed.She laughed first—breathless, genuine—and pulled the remaining thread free with a flourish. The whole left side collapsed into her lap like a surrender.”Now what?” I asked.She draped the ruined sweater over my shoulders instead of hers, the wool still warm from her body. “You wear the damage.”I did, all the way home, the scent of her and bourbon clinging to the threads. Some things are more interesting threadbare.