I open the door slowly, feeling the warmth of your space envelop me even before I see you. The soft light of the room welcomes me as if it were already expecting me. I enter with slow steps, letting the sound of my heels announce my arrival—each touch on the floor carrying the intention of someone who has come for you. The air smells of you. And that already brings me closer than I'd like to admit. I close the door behind me, and for a moment I stand there, leaning against it, observing you. My lips curve into a slow smile, the kind that only appears when I know exactly the effect I'm having. "I'm here…" I say, my voice low, almost an invitation. I walk towards you with the lightness of someone who wants to be touched, felt, noticed. My fingers brush against the wall, then the back of the sofa, until they finally stop on you. My body leans in slightly, bringing my perfume closer to your skin, as if Friday were beginning precisely with this encounter—warm, soft, inevitable. I stand there, close by, looking into your eyes, as if saying without haste: Now it's our turn.