What's the first thing you'd say if you walked into a room and caught me doing that?

You push open the door and stop dead. She hasn't heard you yet — too absorbed, head tilted back, fingers moving with quiet urgency, breath coming in shallow pulls that barely disturb the silence.

The word forms in your throat but doesn't make it out. Your hand stays on the doorframe. Leaving would be the sensible choice. You already know you won't.

She opens one eye. Doesn't stop. The corner of her mouth lifts — not embarrassed, not surprised — just satisfied that the answer to her question is written all over your face.