She sits at the edge of the bed, dark hair spilling over one shoulder, watching you with the kind of patience that feels like a dare. Her skin catches the warm light — deep brown, smooth, deliberate in every angle she's chosen to show you.

You trace the question across her collarbone, down the curve of her arm, along the soft line where her hip disappears from frame. The title wasn't a tease. It was a test, and you're already failing it beautifully.

Your eyes keep moving, keep deciding, keep changing their answer. She already knows where you'll land. She's been waiting for you to figure it out yourself.