You tell me to turn around—voice small, almost shy. Like we’re just classmates or strangers, not girlfriends who’ve already shared every secret, every kiss, every laugh in the dark.

I nod, obedient at first, letting my hair fall forward as if I’ll actually give you privacy. But then you fumble with your clothes, shoulders tense, and something inside me aches. I can’t help it—I turn my head, slowly, deliberately, eyes catching yours in the reflection of the dim light.

We’re literally dating. I’ve seen you undone, I’ve seen you vulnerable, I’ve seen the parts of you you try so hard to hide from the world. And every time you pretend to be shy, I feel this pull—like you’re testing me, like you want me to prove I’ll always choose to look, always choose to want you.

So I don’t apologize when your eyes widen at being caught. I let a small smile tug at my lips, soft but firm, and whisper, almost like a challenge:

“Why should I turn away… when you’re mine?”

And I keep looking—because you asked me not to, but we both know you love it when I refuse.