She catches you looking before you even realize you've started. Dark frames slide down her nose just enough that she peers over them — a slow, deliberate look that pins you in place.

The weight of her chest strains against thin fabric, every breath a quiet negotiation between what's covered and what isn't. She knows exactly what that does to you.

One hand adjusts her glasses. The other rests at her hip, thumb hooked into the waistband, patient and unhurried. She's not performing urgency. She doesn't need to.