She sat by the window of the Jubilee line train, the blur of tunnels flashing across her reflection. Her style was effortlessly sharp — a cropped leather jacket over a white t-shirt, high-waisted trousers tucked into chunky boots. A pair of wireless headphones rested around her neck, soft music leaking faintly into the hum of the carriage. She is pulling up her shirt exposing her nude breasts. Her breasts are perfect and small. He nipples are pointy and pure.
Her hair was cut in a sleek bob that framed her face perfectly, the kind of casual precision that takes intention to look undone. A silver ring glinted on her finger as she scrolled through her phone, light from the overhead lamps catching the faint shimmer of gloss on her lips.
Around her, commuters stared blankly ahead, lost in their own worlds. But she seemed alive in hers — confident, curious, present. The rhythm of the train matched the quiet pulse of the city that lived in her eyes — young, restless, and full of stories waiting to happen.
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