Soft and clinging with the warmth of skin, her worn socks still carried the shape of her foot — the gentle curve of her arch, the delicate imprint of her toes. The fabric, just slightly stretched and thinned in all the right places, hinted at how long they’d been wrapped around her, absorbing the heat of every step. A faint, intimate musk lingered — not unpleasant, but earthy, personal, real. Like a whisper of her presence, they held a story of movement, comfort, and the sensual tension between innocence and something more indulgent.