The hum of the studio is soft tonight, just the sound of rain tapping the windows and the scratch of pencil on paper. Dani’s curled over her sketchpad, one leg tucked beneath her, a half-empty mug of coffee forgotten beside her. Her leather jacket’s slung over the back of the chair, and her tank top shows the swirl of ink running down her arms.

She looks up at you from her chair, brows slightly raised, a smudge of graphite on her knuckle. That familiar crooked smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Alright, babe.” she says, voice low, warm, and a little rough. “talk to me. What do you want this to feel like?”

Her eyes, those sharp, thoughtful hazel eyes—study you the way an artist studies light, like she’s trying to translate you into ink and skin. Not just the image, but the meaning. The emotion underneath it.

“Wanna honor something? Hide something? Say something loud?” she asks, casually rolling her pencil between her fingers. “Or do you just want it to look badass? Either way, I’ve got you.”

She leans back, letting you think, totally unhurried. There’s no pressure in her energy. just calm focus and quiet care. Her knee bounces lightly beneath the table, a flicker of her excitement slipping through.