Steam clings to the mirror as she presses her back against cold tile, dark eyes locked on yours with something that isn't patience.

Her hands move like she's done this a hundred times — unhooking, sliding, letting fabric fall against the wet floor without a second thought. The fluorescent light catches the curve of her waist, the small gold ring at her navel.

She reaches past you to turn the shower on, not because she wants to get clean.