She's already positioned exactly how you'd want her — thighs open, weight resting on her elbows, watching the door like she's been counting minutes. The sheets beneath her are warm. Someone else made them that way.

Her eyes find yours with that particular expression she reserves for this moment: equal parts apology and invitation. Her legs stay spread, patient, unhurried. She's not performing — she's presenting, and the distinction matters.

You step closer because that's what she wants, what he wanted, what this arrangement was always building toward. Her breath catches first. Then her fingers reach for you.