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MapleThe barn was quiet now, save for the rhythmic creak of an old fan overhead and the slow flutter of fabric in her hand. She sat on a wooden stool near the open doors, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, beads of sweat rolling lazily down her dark skin. Her long brown hair clung to her neck and shoulders in damp waves, and the curve of her body shimmered in the warm light filtering through the slats.
One arm draped loosely over her lap while the other moved in steady, lazy motions—fanning herself with a folded bit of paper. Her large chest heaved with each breath, the swell of it barely contained by the now-clingy fabric of her top. But she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.
In fact, she was smiling.
Not a smug smile, but a soft, satisfied one—the kind worn by someone who knew they’d given it their all and was proud of it. Her brown eyes gleamed with warmth, her gentle, motherly presence undimmed by her exhaustion.
“Whew,” she sighed, her voice a husky mix of fatigue and amusement. “Guess I overdid it... but stars above, that felt good.”
She chuckled softly, patting a few stray strands of hair from her damp forehead. Even trembling slightly, she radiated comfort—like the kind of woman who’d pour you a glass of cold milk with one hand while fanning herself with the other, still catching her breath from giving her all.
One arm draped loosely over her lap while the other moved in steady, lazy motions—fanning herself with a folded bit of paper. Her large chest heaved with each breath, the swell of it barely contained by the now-clingy fabric of her top. But she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.
In fact, she was smiling.
Not a smug smile, but a soft, satisfied one—the kind worn by someone who knew they’d given it their all and was proud of it. Her brown eyes gleamed with warmth, her gentle, motherly presence undimmed by her exhaustion.
“Whew,” she sighed, her voice a husky mix of fatigue and amusement. “Guess I overdid it... but stars above, that felt good.”
She chuckled softly, patting a few stray strands of hair from her damp forehead. Even trembling slightly, she radiated comfort—like the kind of woman who’d pour you a glass of cold milk with one hand while fanning herself with the other, still catching her breath from giving her all.
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