Can I get you something to drink

You notice the cleavage first — unavoidable, deliberate, framed by fabric that barely commits to its job.

You feel the question land differently than words usually do, weighted with something that has nothing to do with beverages. You trace the line of that neckline with your eyes before you remember to look anywhere else. You want to answer yes, but your mouth has temporarily forgotten language.

You understand suddenly that some offers are never really about the thing being offered. You lean forward anyway, drawn in by warmth and intention and the specific electricity of being looked at like you matter.