Two petite bodies arranged like a question only your hands can answer. One leans forward, spine curved, daring you to trace it. The other watches you watching her, chin tilted, already reading your hesitation.

You scan the details — the sharp jut of a hip here, the soft hollow of a throat there. Your attention keeps splitting, pulled left then right, neither choice feeling wrong enough to abandon.

This is the specific torture they've designed for you: standing at the fork while want pools in your stomach, knowing whichever way you reach first, the other pair of eyes will still be waiting.