The morning tasted like slow motion. Sunlight poured into the room like a warm breath, brushing her skin with the kind of softness that turns ordinary movements into quiet invitations. She lay across the sheets still kissed by sleep, wearing a faint smile that seemed caught somewhere between dreaming and waking.
The pale fabric of her top clung to her body only where she allowed it to. When she lifted her arm, the loose cotton slipped off her shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone — subtle, yet impossible not to notice. Her movements were unhurried, but they carried a quiet confidence, the kind that needs no performance — only light and presence.
When she sat up, the warm sun wrapped around her like a second skin, tracing the curve of her hips, the gentle arch of her back, the softness of her stomach. Nothing felt staged. Everything unfolded naturally, as if this morning had chosen her, not the other way around.
Sometimes she turned her head toward the window, and the light held on to her gaze as if wanting to memorize every shade of it. Other times, half-lying against the pillows, she looked like the softest form of desire — the kind that never forces, yet promises everything.
