She holds the hem between two fingers, knuckles grazing her ribs, watching you decide. The question hangs in the air like heat before a storm — not innocent, not quite.

Her blouse gaps just enough at the buttons to suggest what patience might reward. A slow breath expands her chest, and the fabric strains, teasing the edge of something deliberate and unhurried.

Your answer doesn't matter. She already knows it in the way your eyes dropped before you could stop them — down to the soft curve rising above cotton, then back up, caught.