In town, she’s always proper.
Sweater sets. Pearl earrings. Sensible shoes.
A walking embodiment of grace and modesty, her grey skirts falling below the knee like punctuation.
But when the door closes behind her, something changes.
She peels off the armor.
The dull fabric gives way to dark silk. Black lace that clings to her curves with the familiarity of an old secret.
No one sees it—but that’s the point.
It’s not for them.
It’s for her.
The ritual is deliberate.
She lights a single candle. Stands in front of the mirror. Slides one strap off her shoulder, then the other.
She studies her reflection—not for flaws, but for memory. For the proof that her fire never went out, even if the world stopped looking for its glow.
She doesn’t need an audience.
But if someone were lucky enough to be invited past the grey façade…
they’d find a woman who doesn’t ask for permission.
Only presence.
Only touch.
Only truth.
Because grey is what the world expects.
But black lace?
That’s who she still is—underneath it all.