Yes

Your gaze, against your will, was drawn across the bustling corridor. It landed on the glowing neon of a Hot Topic. Just inside, near a rack of band t-shirts, was a girl. She was bent slightly, organizing a display of spiked bracelets, and the posture accentuated the profound curve of her hips and the generous swell of her backside, sheathed in a tight, short black skirt.

“See how she hides in the dark fabric, how she longs for a glance that isn’t mockery?” Inara whispered, her tone like smoked honey. “She is a ripe fruit, Philip. Ungathered. Unappreciated. Go and pick her.”

“I can’t just—” you started to mutter, but your feet were already moving. The strap-down job made your walk stiff, but it somehow translated into a confident, purposeful stride. You pushed through the glass door into the cooler air, thick with the scent of new vinyl and incense.

You stopped near the bracelet display. She straightened up, and you saw the full picture: the fishnet stockings, the oversized band shirt that did nothing to conceal the impressive swell of her chest, the round, soft face framed by dyed black hair with purple streaks. She looked at you, her eyes—a warm brown—widening behind dark eyeliner.

“Uh, can I help you find something?” she asked, her voice softer than you expected, barely rising above the store’s industrial music.

Inara’s guidance was a direct pressure behind your eyes. Compliment her. Not her clothes. Her. “Actually,” you said, your own voice surprisingly steady, “I was just admiring your ink. The raven on your forearm. It’s really well done.”

She blinked, and a flush crept up her neck, splashing over her pale cheeks. She instinctively pulled her sleeve down a little further, a gesture of shyness, not modesty. “Oh. Thanks. Most people just say it’s creepy.”

“They’re wrong,” you said, and the words felt foreign but right. “It suits you. I’m Philip.”

“Andrea,” she said, almost tripping over the name. She tucked a strand of hair behind a pierced ear.