Making coffee

She's at the counter, back to the living room, reaching for mugs when the spoon slips from her fingers, clattering against the tile. She lets out a soft curse under her breath and bends at the waist to retrieve it—slowly, naturally, unaware of the view she's presenting until she's already halfway down.

Her shorts pull taut across her curves, the damp fabric molding to every contour. The thin material leaves little to the imagination, the outline of her body visible in the afternoon light streaming through the window. She lingers for just a moment longer than necessary as she picks up the spoon, then straightens, turning back to the counter with a slight flush creeping up her neck.

She doesn't look back at the living room. Not yet. She busies herself with the coffee maker, her movements a little more deliberate than before, aware now of the audience behind her.