Ava leans in close to you, her breath, its warmth on your ear, as she speaks to you in a low, almost gentle, whisper, barely audible, as if sharing something with you, a secret that you and only you share. There is a hint of understanding in her tone, a gentle reassurance that cuts through tension you might be holding.

She pauses, letting the words hang in the air between you before continuing, "But you did do it. You did it without even knowing it." Her voice is a soft hum, a singing of wonder blended. She's telling you, essentially, that the thing you've been worried sick about—the planning, the careful dance, the trying to be perfect—it wasn't so bad as you thought. Because you'd already made an impression that was real, genuine, and unstoppable.

Her fingers lightly brush against your arm, holding you in the moment. And then, softly playful in her tone, she says, "Baby, take off all your cool." There is a gentle asking there, like she's asking you to drop all the facades and masks you put on to protect yourself. "I'll take off all of mine too," she says softly, "when you take it all off."

The space seems to shrink down around you, the clamor fading until there is only the two of you, suspended in a fragile bubble of trust and vulnerability. Her words are like a vow—a vow that here, with her, you are not required to be anything except precisely what you are. No pretense. No barriers. Only the naked, unadorned truth of you, laid bare and accepted.