Roses are red....

You catch her in red lingerie before you remember she's not a her — just heat, just color, just the pull of fabric against skin that makes your mouth go dry.

You stand there longer than you planned, eyes tracing the lace where it cuts across the thigh, the way it holds everything and hides just enough to keep you wanting.

You already know this image will stay with you — not as a memory exactly, but as a pressure behind the ribs, a specific kind of hunger you won't quite be able to name.