She says it like a challenge, her chin lifting slightly. “I’m fine alone.” And maybe she believes it. But the robe she wears doesn’t seem to agree. The fabric hangs loose, tied in a knot that’s more suggestion than security. It slides slowly with each step, until the edge grazes the slope of her shoulder. She doesn’t pull it back up. She lets it linger there, skin catching the light just enough to make you notice.
When she leans forward to reach for something, the robe shifts again, baring the soft hollow where her collarbone meets her neck. The movement is natural, but the pause after isn’t — she holds herself there for a moment, still enough for your eyes to follow the line of skin down to where the fabric rests. The scent of her — warm, faintly sweet, with something sharper underneath — drifts just close enough to stay with you.
She says she’s fine alone, but her robe tells another truth. It falls the way water does, finding the path where resistance is weakest. And she lets it, every time, as though she knows exactly when you’ll look… and exactly why you won’t look away.