Bra isn't allowed in my house, do you mind?

She frames it as a question, but the smirk says she already knows your answer. The shirt hangs loose, fabric shifting with every small movement, nothing underneath to interrupt the shape of her.

This is her space, her rule, stated so casually it lands harder than any deliberate provocation. Amateur in the truest sense — no performance, no set lighting, just a woman comfortable enough in her own home to make you feel like the guest.

You mind? No. You mind every single detail, actually — the way the cotton drapes, the warmth in her expression, the quiet confidence behind the asking.