Daphne never made a fuss about it — that full, heavy curve sitting at the base of her spine like a secret the rest of the world kept missing. You notice it now, the way fabric pulls tight across each rounded swell, stitching doing serious work.

Your eyes trace the slope downward, following the generous flare of her hips where they widen without apology. There's weight here, real and warm, the kind that shifts when she moves and holds your attention hostage.

Everyone else looked past it. You won't make that mistake. You're already thinking about pressing your palms against that softness and finally giving it the attention it deserves.

She stands close enough that you catch the warmth radiating off her skin, one hip tilted just slightly, daring you to look longer than you planned.

Every curve pulls your attention somewhere new — the soft weight of her, the way fabric clings then surrenders, the small details that reward anyone patient enough to really look.

She already knows what your answer is. You can feel it in the way she holds your gaze, unhurried, certain — like a question she asked only as a formality.