No bra today at the farm
You notice the cleavage first — soft, unhidden, pressing against a worn cotton shirt left carelessly unbuttoned in the summer heat.
You take in the whole scene slowly: the hay-dusted skin, the flush across the chest from working outdoors, the casual confidence of someone who decided this morning that comfort wins over coverage.
You feel the pull of it, that particular electricity of seeing something real and unposed — a body moving freely through its day, completely indifferent to how badly you want to keep watching.
