Eye contact pleeease... never mind.

You came here for eye contact, but the cleavage makes that ambition collapse instantly.

You find your gaze pulled downward like gravity has a personal agenda, tracing the soft curve where fabric surrenders to skin, lingering on the warm shadow between.

You tell yourself you'll look up in a moment, you genuinely mean it, but your eyes have already made their own decision and you lack any real motivation to argue — some views demand your full, uninterrupted, thoroughly unashamed attention, and you're finally honest enough to admit it.