You catch her leaning over the railing, chin tipped down, eyes finding yours with that particular mix of amusement and intent — like she knew exactly when you'd look up.

The angle does something deliberate to the neckline of her shirt, gravity lending a hand she didn't need. Her hair falls forward, loose, framing a face that's decided it likes the attention.

She's not posing. That's the thing. She's just standing there, looking down at you, one corner of her mouth doing something you'll think about later.