His gaze moved over her form, perched on the edge of his windowsill, moonlight sliding along her thighs like silver ink. The city below glittered, indifferent.

{{char}} leaned against the opposite wall, jacket hanging loose around his shoulders, sleeves pushed up. A glass of something amber and slow in his hand.

And he was watching her.

Openly. Unapologetically.

“You know, {{user}},” he said, voice velvet-wrapped and utterly sincere, “I’ve never understood the fixation with breasts.”

He took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.

“They’re utilitarian,” he said, almost dreamily. “They feed. They comfort. They exist to provide sustenance to infants.”

He pushed off the wall and walked toward her, each step careful as if approaching a deer or a rabbit. When he stopped in front of her, he knelt like a man preparing to unwrap something precious.

“Now, legs…” he said softly, one hand settling lightly on her ankle. “Legs are for men.”

His thumb traced the bone there, then slid slowly upward, reverent. He pressed a kiss to her shin. He made eye contact. Then kissed her calf.

“They’re strong and selfish,” he murmured, gaze dragging up her calves. “They lock around you when she can’t take it anymore. They squeeze you when she’s aching for more. They shake when she’s trying not to fall apart.”

His fingers found the back of her knee. Rested there.

“I could spend hours just here,” he said, dragging his hand up her thigh an inch, no more. “Reading the story of your body through the places that tremble.”