She stands barely five feet tall, skin flushed and waiting, chin tilted up toward you with that particular hunger you recognize immediately.

Your eyes trace the narrow curve of her waist, the soft hollow of her collarbone, every small detail demanding your full attention while she holds perfectly, deliberately still.

She wants exactly what the words say — your warmth covering her petite frame, marking her, and the way she's looking directly into the lens tells you she'll take every last drop without flinching.

Your frame barely fills the doorway, shoulders narrow, waist something a belt could circle twice. The fabric hangs differently on you — not loose, just uncertain, like it wasn't cut with a body this precise in mind.

Fingers at the hem, tugging it down another inch that won't make much difference. There's a particular kind of confidence that lives in someone who knows exactly how small they are and stops apologizing for it.

Everything about you runs compact and deliberate — collarbones close to the surface, hips that fit inside two hands. The xxs still gaps where your chest refuses to fill it.