Would you let me drain your balls?

She's looking straight at you — not past you, not through you — with the kind of focus that makes your pulse drop somewhere lower than your chest. One brow slightly raised, mouth barely parted, like she already knows your answer.

Her hand rests at her collarbone, fingers loose, patient. The posture of someone who has never once needed to ask twice. The lighting catches the curve of her throat, the soft weight of her gaze.

You feel the question less like words and more like pressure — deliberate, unhurried. She's not offering. She's deciding. And the part of you already nodding hasn't consulted the rest of you yet.