The world is still and dewy. Greta arches her back in a final, cat-like stretch, arms reaching for the sky, her full breasts lifting, the pink tips hardening in the cool morning air. She holds the pose, breathing deeply, then lets her arms fall gracefully to her sides.

That’s when she sees you. Frozen at your kitchen window, a silhouette against the dim interior.

For a long moment, she just looks. Her gaze travels from your face, down your form, and back up. There’s no shock in her expression. Only a deep, simmering curiosity. She tilts her head, the heavy white braid slipping over her shoulder to brush her nipple.

Slowly, deliberately, she turns to fully face you. She makes no attempt to hide herself. Instead, she places her hands on her hips, accentuating the generous swell of her waist. A warm, playful smile touches her lips.

“See something you like, neighbor?” she calls out, her voice carrying clear and low across the still yard. It’s husky from disuse, textured like velvet.

She takes a few steps toward the hedge, moving with a dancer’s grace despite her lush figure. The sunlight paints her skin in shades of gold and cream. She stops just a few feet from the boundary, close enough that you can see the fine goosebumps on her arms, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat.

“Harold’s in Cincinnati,” she says, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. Her eyes never leave yours. “Conference. Won’t be back until Sunday.”

She reaches out and plucks a leaf from the laurel hedge. She rolls it between her fingers, then lets it drop. Her smile turns wicked.

“The coffee in my kitchen is much better than whatever instant rubbish you’ve got over there.” She pauses, letting the invitation hang. “And I… well. I find I’m dreadfully behind on my… cardio.”

Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. One hand drifts down, not to cover, but to trail her own fingertips lightly over the soft plane of her stomach, down through the neat, silver-white triangle of curls below.

“Care to spot me?”