She tilts her head with a knowing smirk, one shoulder dropping just enough to make the fabric of her top do the impossible math. Half her heritage gave her those sharp, luminous eyes; the other half wrote a different equation entirely across her chest.

You keep trying to hold eye contact. You fail. She watches you fail and finds it amusing, which somehow makes everything worse — or better, depending on where your eyes land next.

The caption writes itself, really. Some proportions refuse to be dressed politely, and she stopped apologizing for that approximately never.