That copper hair spills against the white fabric like something caught between sacred and sinful, demanding your full attention before you've even decided to give it.

She knows exactly what the pale lace does against her skin — how it turns warmth into contrast, how innocence worn deliberately becomes its own kind of provocation.

You keep coming back to her eyes. Whatever she's thinking behind that expression, it has nothing to do with angels, and everything to do with making sure you can't look away.