Keep it shaved or grow a bush

She's put the question directly to you, fingers tracing the smooth skin where a curve meets bare vulnerability. The razor left nothing to imagination, every contour exposed and deliberate, daring your eyes to linger.

You lean closer, studying the contrast — the soft give of her inner thigh against that clean, uninterrupted line. It's a choice she made this morning, and she wants your opinion formed slowly, carefully.

Your answer builds somewhere behind your sternum before your mouth finds the words. Shaved means this: nothing between your gaze and exactly what she's offering you right now.