She sets the plate down slowly, dark eyes daring you to look away first. The kitchen smells like lime and chili, but your attention stays fixed on the curve of her shoulder, the way her blouse slips just enough.

She catches you staring and doesn't fix it. Instead she leans forward, letting you take in exactly what she's offering — warmth, heat, something that lingers on the tongue long after.

This is her invitation. Not rushed, not accidental. She knows the difference between a snack and a feast, and right now she's deciding which one you deserve.