She barely fills the frame, small-boned and hesitant, fingers twisted at her sides like she hasn't quite decided whether to stay.

The light catches the curve of her hip where fabric pulls tight, tracing a body that hasn't learned to hide itself yet — every angle sharp, every inch unused to being watched this closely.

You lean in. She holds still. That particular stillness that sits right on the edge between nerves and want, the kind that makes your hands slow down without being asked.