You find her face-down on the table, a single folded towel riding low across her hips, bare skin catching the warm amber light. Her dark hair spills across her shoulders, arms loose at her sides — completely unhurried, completely unguarded.

She isn't performing patience. She genuinely doesn't care how long you make her wait. That ease is its own kind of invitation, more disarming than anything deliberate could be.

Her small frame barely fills the table, which somehow makes the stillness more charged. You pick up the oil. Her breath shifts — just slightly — before you've even touched her.