Fuck me, date me or marry me, you choose

Three options, one woman — and somehow the weight of that choice lands entirely on you. She's arranged herself like a question you weren't prepared to answer, the kind that bypasses your brain and goes straight to your chest, then lower.

Her expression does most of the work: not quite a smirk, not quite an invitation, but something that sits deliberately between the two. She knows exactly what she's offering and exactly how much it costs you to decide.

Pick wrong and you'll spend weeks wondering. Pick right and you'll spend longer wondering still — just in a different room, with different regrets, and considerably less clothing.