She's wrapped in nothing but deep burgundy yoga pants that grip every curve like they were painted on, the waistband riding low enough to make you forget what you were about to say.

You find yourself staring at the slow arch of her back, the way she tilts her hips forward — a deliberate invitation dressed up as casual posture. The fabric pulls tight across her, leaving absolutely nothing to interpretation.

She wants to know if you'd unwrap her. The answer is already written across your face, and she's reading every word of it with that quiet, knowing smile.