Slide it off me or leave it on?

The waistband sits two inches below your hip bones, that deliberate tease of a fold where the fabric bunches and resists.

You reach forward, fingertips hooking the elastic, feeling the slow drag of stretched cotton peeling away from warm skin — or you stop, reconsidering, letting it stay exactly where it is.

That decision point holds everything: the dark fabric clinging to the curve of your thighs, the slight indent it leaves behind, the question hanging in the air between staying dressed and not.