She's planted herself right in front of you, daring you to look away. Sheer fabric clings where it matters, leaves just enough shadow to keep your eyes moving — collarbone to waist to hip, then back again.

There's no rush in her posture. She knows exactly how long you've been looking, and she's decided you can keep going. The lingerie isn't decoration — it's a slow conversation she's already winning.

Your coffee's gone cold. Your phone stopped mattering twenty minutes ago. She hasn't moved, hasn't blinked, and somehow that stillness hits harder than anything else in the room.