Emily strips slowly, pretending she didn’t notice

She didn’t look at the crack again.

Didn’t react.

Her gaze stayed fixed on her own reflection, calm and casual, like nothing was different. Like she hadn’t just realized there was someone behind the glass—watching her. Tracking every breath. Every twitch of muscle beneath the fabric.

She peeled her top off first.

Slowly.

The racerback rose inch by inch, revealing the flushed curve of her stomach, the gentle softness around her hips. She arched slightly to tug it up and over her head, shaking out her damp hair, letting the cotton fall from her fingertips onto the bench beside her.

Her sports bra came next.

She eased the straps down over her shoulders, careful not to wince at the ache in her chest. The sweat had made the fabric cling tighter, but she moved with unhurried grace, almost like she was still performing—just for herself.

The bra peeled away with a soft stretch of elastic.

Her breasts spilled free—heavier than she wanted to admit, nipples flushed and stiff from the compression. She reached up and cupped one briefly, thumb brushing over the skin with a clinical sort of tenderness. She checked for any hint of let-down. None.

Good.

She didn’t rush.

Her hands moved automatically—adjusting, lifting, smoothing down faint red pressure marks left behind. She turned slightly at the hips, checking the curve of her side. Her back. Her posture.

All things women did in front of mirrors.

Natural.

Routine.

Except for the way her eyes lingered on the tilt of her shoulders, the way she traced the shape of her body with her gaze, following the slope of her waist to the swell of her hips.

She bent slightly.

Then turned more fully.

Checked out her ass in the mirror, one hand resting lightly on her hip, fingers slipping under the waistband of her leggings. The fabric hugged her like a second skin, wet and dark and clinging. She adjusted the waistband. Slowly.

There was nothing overt in her expression. No smile. No wink.

But she knew.

She had felt eyes on her before.

Back in college, she used to dance. Not ballet. Not jazz. The other kind. The kind with poles and shadows and stacks of cash at the edge of the stage. She remembered what it felt like to be watched—really watched. The thrill of it. The heat.

But this was different.

There was no music now. No lights. No stage.

And the person watching thought she didn’t know.

That was what made her skin buzz.

She stepped out of her leggings one foot at a time, folded them neatly, and set them on the bench. Now fully nude, she stood in front of the mirror—shoulders back, chin lifted, like it was just another day, just another changing room.

Her nipples remained hard.

A droplet of sweat slid down the curve of her breast.

The crack flickered again.

Shadow. Then light.

They hadn’t stopped watching.