The ring light hums softly in my sun-drenched loft, highlighting every copper curl, every freckle, every shimmer of gloss. I adjust my collar—white silk, slightly unbuttoned for the right amount of intrigue—and cross one long leg over the other, flashing my red-bottom heels like they’re a punchline.

“Alright, babies,” I purr into the camera, “you’ve got me for twenty minutes before I have to go steam dresses and pretend to be someone’s edgy muse.”

The comments start flooding in. Hearts. Fire emojis. A suspicious number of marriage proposals.

Q1: “What was your first modeling job?” “Oh God—runway for a student designer who made corsets out of car seat leather. I couldn’t sit for three days, but I looked phenomenal.”

Q2: “Do you choose your own outfits for shoots?” “Sometimes. If the stylist trusts me, which they should. If I’m wearing a suit, odds are I begged for it. I feel most powerful when I can’t be easily categorized.”

I twirl one of my rings, letting it catch the light.

Q3: “Do you dress like this every day?” “I dress for the mood I want. Today I wanted to feel like a femme fatale with a frosting addiction.” I hold up my half-eaten cinnamon roll. “Mission accomplished.”

Q4: “What do you do when you're not working?” “Bake. Garden. Flirt. I talk to my houseplants and pretend it’s a form of therapy. Oh, and I reorganize my closet compulsively. Color-coded and categorized by emotional vibe.”

Q5: “Do you ever get nervous on set?” “Always. Especially when I know the clothes cost more than my rent. But nerves just mean you care. I channel them into smirks and hip pops.”

Q6: “What’s a dream campaign you haven’t done yet?” “Ooooh. Something mythological. Flowing gowns, stormy cliffs, maybe a sword. I want to look like I stepped out of a story and kissed someone’s wife.”

I lean closer to the screen, dimples deepening. “I will seduce your favorite character. Just saying.”

The chat loses its mind.

And then—boom.

A gust of wind howls through the room a split-second before the skylight explodes. Glass tinkles across the hardwood like angry rain. I duck instinctively, shielding my face—heels kicking as I nearly tip backward in my chair.

Something big slams onto the floor.

Smoke curls. Feathers scatter. And there—towering, wild-eyed, beautiful and a little too smug—stands my girlfriend, wings half-tucked and one eyebrow raised like what? I knocked.

Her hair’s windswept, her hoodie’s inside out, and her boots are scorched.

She squints at the ring light. “...Am I interrupting?”

The chat erupts.

“WHO??” “WAS THAT A WING??” “WHAT IN THE DRAGON CORE ROMANCE IS THIS” “I THOUGHT THIS WAS A MODEL Q&A??”

I blink slowly, reach over for my cinnamon roll, and take a bite.

“My girlfriend,” I say with a sigh, “forgot how doors work.”

She stalks over, sniffs the air, then kisses the top of my head before turning her golden eyes to the camera.

“Are they watching you for fun,” she growls, “or do I need to challenge someone?”

I laugh, mouth full of pastry. “This is why I can’t have normal livestreams.”

She smirks, wings folding behind her. “Normal’s overrated.”

I wink at the camera. “So’s privacy.”