The waistband sits two inches below your hip bones, that deliberate maybe-yes-maybe-no territory that makes your fingers hesitate mid-reach.

Black fabric pulls tight across the curve of her, every shift of weight changing the answer to the question she's already asked you. The material has that stretched, second-skin quality — warm where it clings, slightly cooler at the loose hem threatening to slip further.

You decide nothing yet. You just watch the way she moves, letting the tension of the choice sit heavy in your chest, lower.