She's warm, soft, and barely awake — tangled in pale sheets with her dark hair fanned across the pillow, that drowsy half-smile aimed directly at you.

Morning light traces the full curve of her chest, her generous figure spilling gently against the cotton, skin smooth and inviting in a way that makes the idea of leaving bed genuinely impossible.

She stretches one arm toward you — an unhurried, wordless invitation to press yourself against all that softness and let the morning dissolve into something slow, close, and entirely too comfortable to rush.