Happy Sunday
You can't take your eyes off this redhead, that copper hair catching the light like something set deliberately on fire.
You feel the Sunday slowness in every curve, the kind of morning where nobody has anywhere to be and bodies stay warm under sheets a little longer than they should.
You want to trace the line from shoulder to hip, to press your mouth against skin that looks this soft, to make the whole lazy day disappear into something urgent and breathless and completely worth it.
