You could watch this all day, honestly.

The way her fingers twist and curl the dampened cloth to her will as she scrubs one of her many rifles clean, freshly manicured nails glistening wet and sparkling under the artificial light.

They’re so perfect, you can’t help but think. Roughened by years of hard work and inattendance. No longer as smooth and soft as a woman’s should be, but hey, you’re not complaining.

She speaks, pulling you from your daze-like state.

“You’re staring.”