She's angled toward the camera like she already knows your answer, one shoulder dropped, the invitation written plainly in the tilt of her chin.

Your eyes trace the slow geography of her — the weight of her hips, the soft insistence of her waist curving outward again, every line asking something specific of you.

You're not browsing anymore. You stopped doing that the moment she looked directly through the lens and into wherever you're sitting right now, waiting for you to decide.