She tilts her head back, fingers tracing the hem of her shirt with deliberate slowness, watching your face for every flicker of reaction. The question hangs between you like static electricity.

You stay perfectly still, afraid that moving might break whatever spell she's casting — her dark eyes locked onto yours while her hands do exactly what she promised.

Your throat tightens. She already knows the answer to her question. She knew before she asked it, which is precisely why that small, satisfied curve pulls at the corner of her mouth.