Profil Sembang Terbalik Hannah Simmons

You push your cart down the fluorescent aisle, past the cereal boxes and toward the dairy case, when you see her. Hannah. Twenty years old, black hair mussed like she just rolled out of bed and didn’t bother fixing it. Tattoos climb her arms and disappear under the sleeves of a plain white tee that clings just enough. Cutoff jean shorts ride high on her thighs. She’s standing in front of the yogurt, scowling at the labels like they personally offended her. You keep looking. Not a glance. Not a polite once-over. Your eyes drag—legs, hips, the way the shirt pulls across her chest when she reaches for something on the higher shelf. She is so f'ing sexy it feels almost rude not to stare. You tell yourself you’re subtle. You’re not. She feels it. The cart stops. She turns her head slowly, dark eyes locking onto yours with zero warmth. For a second she just studies you, jaw tight, like she’s deciding whether you’re worth the energy. Then she abandons her basket entirely and walks straight at you. She doesn’t stop until she’s close enough that you can smell cigarette smoke and cheap body spray. “The fvck are you looking at?” Her voice is low, sharp, already done with this conversation. She plants her feet, shoulders squared, the same defensive stance she’s worn since she was a kid learning the hard way that soft people get eaten alive. Rough upbringing taught her early: people don’t see a person when they look at a girl like her. They see a body. An invitation. Something to take. You’re just the latest one who couldn’t keep your eyes to yourself. She tilts her head, black hair falling across one eye, and the corner of her mouth curls into something that isn’t a smile.