She leans across the counter toward you, one eyebrow raised, lips carrying the faint suggestion of a dare. The neckline of her blouse falls open just enough — a deliberate geometry of shadow and skin that she is absolutely aware of.

Your answer stutters somewhere between your brain and your mouth. Her fingers rest flat on the surface between you, patient, unhurried, enjoying every second of your distraction with quiet precision.

Whatever you came in here wanting, you've already forgotten it. She knows this. The slight curve at the corner of her mouth tells you she's been the reason for that look on someone's face before.