The question hangs in the air like a dare, and she's not waiting for your answer. She leans forward, letting gravity make its own argument — full, heavy, undeniable.

Your eyes trace the curve of her chest, the soft weight pressing against fabric that's losing the negotiation. She tilts her head, reading you the way you're reading her, cataloguing exactly where your gaze keeps returning.

Top or bottom — right now the only position that matters is closer. She already knows what you'll choose. The smirk says she chose you first.