Opal wipes grease from her cheek, lets her arm drop, then plants both palms on the workbench behind her and leans back just enough to arch her chest forward, ponytail swaying once; the slow camera push-in tightens on her cocky smirk as a bead of sweat rolls down her collarbone and she flashes a quick brow-lift, exhaling the line in a breezy Valley accent, “how can I service you?”—playful, knowing, and dripping with innuendo.
