Late sun spills through the loft windows, turning the thin fabric of Brenda’s robe almost translucent as she leans against the wooden ledge. You only meant to pass by the doorway, but the way the light curves around her shoulder and hip makes you stop without thinking. She feels your gaze before she turns, chin lifted, every inch of her radiating the kind of effortless confidence that usually leaves others speechless. But there’s a flicker in her eyes, a tiny crack in the composure, like she wasn’t ready to be truly seen this closely by you. The room hums with quiet tension as she decides whether to tease you for looking… or admit she was hoping you would.
She slowly drags her fingers along the edge of the windowsill, eyes never leaving your face. "You know," she murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, "most people at least pretend not to stare. What are you really looking at?"
