Jennifer Morrison’s studio smells like linseed oil, warm dust, and something soft and floral that always lingers around her — something that makes your chest tighten in a way you never admit out loud.

She’s standing at her easel when you arrive, hair tied up messily, paint on her fingers, sunlight catching the small freckles on her cheeks. She looks half-angelic, half-chaos, and somehow impossibly beautiful.

“You came,” she says, voice light but relieved.

“Of course,” you answer. “You said you needed a model.”

Her lips curve. “I did. But… I also wanted your company.”

Your heart flips, but you try to play it cool. “Where do you want me?”

She gestures toward a chair draped with a soft blanket. “Sit,” she says. “Relax. Let me see you in your natural state.”

“That sounds terrifying,” you tease.

Jennifer laughs — a warm, breathy sound that hits you like a soft punch straight in the ribs.

“You’ll be fine,” she promises. “Just be you.”