I invite you into my campervan & I’m like this, what is your next move?

The campervan door slides open and there she is — stretched across the narrow mattress, one knee raised, the late afternoon light cutting warm stripes across bare skin. No preamble. No pretense. Just the quiet hum of the road behind you and this.

Your eyes move slowly, tracing the curve of her hip where the sheet has given up entirely, the casual confidence of someone who arranged nothing and needs nothing arranged. She watches you take it in, unhurried.

The space is small enough that stepping inside means committing. Your hand finds the door handle. You pull it shut behind you.