Your neighbor never mentioned she spent Saturdays like this — stretched across the sun-warmed deck, skin golden, curves spilling lazily over the lounge chair like she has nowhere better to be.

You find yourself lingering near the fence line, fingers gripping the wood, eyes tracing the heavy swell of her hips, the soft weight of her thighs pressed together. She shifts, and everything moves with her.

She hasn't looked up yet. Maybe she knows you're watching. Maybe that's exactly why she arches her back just slightly, letting the afternoon light settle across every generous inch of her.