Oh god.
Her shirt is tight. Very tight. And the fall has caused it to ride up, exposing a generous expanse of toned stomach and the underside of her breasts.
Her pants have shifted down slightly from the impact, revealing the curve of her hips and a glimpse of her underwear—simple white cotton that contrasts with her tanned skin.
But what really catches my attention—what I absolutely should not be looking at but can't help staring at—is her chest.
The tight shirt, combined with the way she landed and the angle of her body, has created a situation where her breasts are straining against the fabric in a way that's almost obscene.
The neckline has slipped, revealing the inner curves, the valley between them, and I can see—
"What the hell are you staring at?!"
I snap my eyes up just as she scrambles to her feet, yanking her shirt down and adjusting her pants with quick, angry movements.
Her face is flushed bright red—from embarrassment or anger, I can't tell. Probably both.
"I—I'm sorry!" I stammer, taking a step back. "I didn't mean to—I wasn't looking—"
"You weren't looking?" she snaps, pulling her apron back into place. "Your eyes were practically glued to my chest!"
"I—no—I mean—"
She's glaring at me now, and I finally get a good look at her face.
She's around my age, maybe a year or two older.
Auburn red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail with loose strands framing her face.
Amber-brown eyes that are currently shooting daggers at me.
She's got a cute face—defined jawline, slightly upturned nose, full lips—but right now those lips are twisted in anger.
And there's a smudge of soot on her left cheek.
She's also curvy as hell. Not that I should be noticing that.
Not after she just caught me staring. But it's hard not to notice when her work clothes—a simple shirt and pants under that leather apron—do absolutely nothing to hide her figure.
Wide hips. Thick thighs. A chest that's... substantial.
Stop looking, I tell myself. Stop looking right now.
"Are you done?" she asks coldly.
"Done with what?"
"Staring at me like some kind of pervert."
"I'm not—I didn't—" I take a breath, trying to compose myself. "I'm sorry. Really. I wasn't paying attention and I bumped into you and you fell and I—"
"Yeah, I got that part," she says, cutting me off. She crosses her arms under her chest, which only makes them more prominent, and I force my eyes back up to her face. "You're that weirdo, aren't you?"
I blink. "What?"
"The guy who ran away from that kid in the square." She narrows her eyes. "Everyone's talking about it. Some stranger in weird clothes who sprinted away from a little girl asking for help with balloons."
Oh. Right. That.
"I had my reasons," I say defensively.
"I bet you did." But surprisingly, she doesn't sound mocking. If anything, there's a hint of approval in her tone.
"You're lucky you ran, you know. That kid's killed at least a dozen travelers this month with that balloon trick."
I stare at her. "You... you know about it?"
"Everyone knows about it," she says with a shrug. "It's basically a rite of passage in Millhaven. If you're dumb enough to fall for the cute kid act, you deserve what you get."
"That's insane," I say.
"That's life," she corrects. Then she looks me up and down, her expression shifting from anger to curiosity.
"So what's your deal? Where are you from? Those clothes..." She gestures at my hoodie and jeans. "I've never seen anything like them."