The camera catches her from behind, golden afternoon light tracing the full curve of each cheek like something pulled fresh from warmth. Smooth, round, impossibly soft — the kind of shape that makes your hands remember themselves.

You want to press your palms flat against that heat, feel the give beneath your fingers, the slight weight shifting as she adjusts her stance. There's a patience to it, an invitation written entirely in stillness.

One touch and you already know — tender at the surface, substantial underneath. You lean closer without deciding to. Some things just pull you in.