She tilts her head with a knowing look, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, the question hanging in the air between you like smoke. Her eyes hold something specific — not innocence, but the performance of it, calculated and warm.

You feel the weight of her gaze pulling at something territorial in you. She's asking, but she already knows the answer, fingers toying with the hem of her kurta, brown skin catching the soft bedroom light.

Whatever she wants, you'll give it. She's made sure of that — the slight pout, the waiting stillness of her body arranged just for you.