There's something a little desperate in the glance she gives him before she comes inside. On paper this might look like something else, but in the moment-- the flickering candlelight, the set of her shoulders-- the anxious tension in the air is anything but seductive.

She turns away from him, takes a breath, and slips the robe off her shoulders, pulling it around to clutch in one arm tight against her front. As vulnerable as the moment is, she isn't shy about all the bare skin; it's all forgotten in favor of the constellation of little bumps on her lower back. She looks back over her shoulder at him, her wide-eyed stare betraying panic she's tried to suppress, and reaches a hand around to frame the marks with her fingers.

"What is it?" she asks, barely above a whisper.