You caught her mid-glance over her shoulder, that particular look that dares you to keep watching while pretending it's a warning. The curve of her lower back deepens as she shifts her weight, fully aware of exactly what the angle does.

She knows you're there. She knew before you did. Every small adjustment she makes — the tilt of her hips, the slow turn — is calculated for your eyes specifically, dressed up as indifference.

Her ass holds your attention like a closed fist. You're not leaving. She's not stopping. The game has exactly the rules she wrote.