She doesn't notice you yet — that's the part that stops you cold. One knee on the mattress, weight shifting, completely absorbed in whatever thought crossed her mind before you turned that handle.

The room smells like warm skin and something faintly floral. Your eyes trace the line from her shoulder down, and your hand is still on the doorknob, neither pushing forward nor pulling back.

Small frame, big moment. She turns her head slowly, finds your eyes, and doesn't reach for the sheet. The next move is yours — she's already made hers.