She tilts her head back with that slow, knowing smile — the kind that says she's already decided how this ends. Dark hair spills over bare shoulders, skin warm like afternoon sun through a window.

Her eyes find the camera and hold it, utterly unrushed. There's a quiet authority in the way she owns every inch of the frame, fingers tracing her collarbone like she's reminding you what you're not touching.

*Si, papi* — two words that land somewhere between permission and command. She's giving you exactly enough to want everything else she hasn't offered yet.